8x01 Winterfell
by Shelley G
Summary: Winter was coming. Now it's here. **A rewrite of the first episode of season 8. The intention is to write six installments, one for each of the episodes of the final season. I intend to keep the good parts of the season and will do my best to fix what is in need of fixing.**
1. Chapter 1: Tyrion

The smell of horse shit permeated every bumping inch of the carriage ride North and the echo of thousands of marching feet had become more familiar to him than the music of any of the musicians that had frequented the halls of Casterly Rock. The constant bouncing made Tyrion's joints ache in protest, but it was still preferable to making the journey on horseback. Making the journey on horseback would have been sufficient to make him wish for death. As it was, the journey was simply unpleasant.

Though he didn't say so, Tyrion gauged from the Spider's expression that the eunuch's opinion of their travel conditions was inline with his own. As they jostled down the well worn rode to Winterfell, Varys watched the view beyond the carriage with a pinched expression of distaste. _He serves the realm_, Tyrion surmised, _but he prefers to do so from a luxurious distance_.

"You should consider yourself lucky. At least your balls won't freeze off."

Varys was not riled by the comment as Tyrion hoped, he looked rather exasperated.

"You take great offense at dwarf jokes, but love telling eunuch jokes." Varys said. "Why is that?"

Tyrion did his best not to smirk. "Because I have balls, and you don't."

* * *

**I'm considering rewriting Season 8. I'll start with Episode 1 (which I don't intend to change much) and as we go on, I will shift the story in the ways I think would have made for the series finale we deserved. I don't know who would be interested in this, but if you are, let me know! While I'm no GRR Martian, I'd like to do my part to salvage the character development that seems to have been forgotten this season. **

**Please review.**


	2. Chapter 2: Jon

**I own nothing. If I did, season 8 would look very different.**

* * *

Jon rode beside his queen. Despite knowing he was surrounded by allies, being surrounded by soldiers that were not his comrades made him uneasy. Perhaps it was simply the North in him.

Onlookers watch the approaching army in stony silence.

It was a inhospitable country, openly hostile to outsiders, but it was this very hostility that made it feel like home.

Jon glanced at Daenerys, sitting stiff and erect on her mount. He could see from her tight expression that she was as ill at ease in his homeland as he was surrounded by her invading army.

This was not the reception she was accustomed to. No doubt, the Mother of Dragons was used to the adoration of the thousands she'd recently freed from bondage. But the Northerners were no man's slaves. And if they were, they'd rise up and free themselves. As they had in Robert's Rebellion as wells as against the tyranny of the Boltons.

"I warned you." Jon said, hoping to lighten the palpable tension.

Daenerys looked to him and for a fraction of a moment it took his breath away. She really was beautiful, almost otherworldly with her unnaturally pale hair in contrast to her youthful face.

"Northerners don't much trust outsiders." He couldn't help the hint of pride that crept into his tone. While he'd pledged himself to the queen at his side and fully intended to honor that pledge, he was at his core a Northerner and Northern pride ran deep.

Just then one of Daenerys's dragons released a roar from high above. Shrieks of terror erupted from the crowed. Daenerys looked up at the sky, her own pride evident in her eyes and on the smile that played at her lips. The words she didn't speak were clear to Jon. The Northerners didn't have to trust her, they only had to obey her. After all, she was the mother of dragons.

As they rode through the gates of Winterfell, cold nostalgia rushed over him. It had been years since he'd truly belonged in this place, but it was this place and the people in it that called him home his dreams. Even in his youth, living in Winterfell had never truly made for a happy home. He'd had a rather a bleak childhood punctuated with bursts of happiness. In truth, it was hard to ever feel at ease when the only mother figure he'd ever known couldn't look at him without thinly veiled hatred, even at the best of times. At the worst of times, Caitlyn Stark hadn't even bothered to veil her hatred.

Perhaps that was why he'd always felt at odds with the eldest of his two half sisters. Though beautiful and strong, as a child, Sansa Stark was all Tully. When she had looked at him, he saw her mother's hatred looking back. Or he had, until Brienne brought his sister to the gates of Castle Black.

Bundled in furs to ward off the chill, the sparse remains of the Stark household waited to welcome Jon and his queen. Jon nudged his horse to a gallop as his gaze found a familiar face.

_Bran_.

Bran the broken boy. The younger brother he last saw unconscious in a bed. At the time, he'd hoped to see him again in a few months. At the time, he had no idea the future would hold so much death and destruction. Now before him sat a familiar, though much changed, face. Brandon Stark was still broken, but no longer a boy.

Jon jumped down from his horse and ran to his brother, knelling before him. His heart swelled to have another sibling returned to him. He loved Sansa dearly, and since their reunion he perhaps loved her more dearly than any other living soul, but it was different from his love for his other siblings. She'd never been a sister toward him as children, and now though he loved her, that love was some less familial than the feelings he nurtured for Bran and Arya and the memory of their lost brothers.

"Look at you," He couldn't help the smile that split his face. "You're a man."

Bran's gaze fell on him, but it did not feel as though he saw him, more like he saw past him, through him. Though his body sat before Jon, he saw nothing of the boy he remembered.

"Almost." Bran said, with a tone as dead as his expression. It sent a chill through Jon.

He felt eyes on him and looked up to see Sansa, the barest hint of a smile curled her lips just for him and disappeared just as quickly. He rose to his feet and strode straight to her. She opened her arms to welcome him into her embrace. His heart sped in his chest at the memory of the way Sansa had flung her arms around him when they had first reunited at Castle Black. In that moment, it didn't matter that she was his least favorite sibling and he was hers. It did not matter that she'd never treated him as a brother or even kindly. They were family. He was hers and she was his.

But this was a different reunion. While her embrace was welcoming, when they pulled apart he found that her gaze was locked on the pale form of the Dragon Queen who stood back, waiting to be acknowledged. Sansa's gaze appraised the queen, icy and remote and completely at opposite of her fiery hair. _Kissed by fire._

Looking at her now, he saw nothing of the nearly destroyed girl who had run into his arms at Castle Black. Neither did he see her mothers cold disdain. She was something else, something stronger. The world had worn away all the softness she'd had in her youth and underneath she was steel. She was a Stark to her core. She was the true Lady of Winterfell.

The North may have dubbed him King in the North as they did Robb before him, but the Lords were fools to do so. He was no king. He was just a soldier. No, Sansa was the one who was born to wear a crown.

Jon looked around the crowd, his once large family had dwindled to near extension. But there was one face he expected that he sorely wished to see and was pained to find absent.

"Where's Arya?" He asked, longing to see the face of the sibling he'd always held dearest to his heart, the only one who had always treated him as a son of Ned Stark with no reservations. His little sister and her unladylike ways had never been far his mind, even though the years apart made it hard for him to even call to mind her face.

"Lurking somewhere." Sansa never looked away from the Queen, seemingly unfazed by her sister's absence. Jon wasn't sure if this was indicative of the distance that had alway existed between the sisters or not. Perhaps, Sansa, unlike her parents, recognized that Arya never had and never would stand on traditional ceremony.

Remembering himself, Jon turned his attention to the Dragon Queen. Daenerys crossed the space between them with large, confident strides, impressive for someone of her small stature.

"Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen." He glanced at Sansa. She did not meet his gaze, and he looked down, for the first time since bending the knee, he felt a twinge of shame. "My sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell."

He knew with certainty that Sansa would not have bent the knee. Steel did not bend.

Daenerys beamed. Despite her airs of confidence, Jon could tell she was desperate to make a favorable first impression.

"Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark. The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you."

Sansa looked her up and down, the warm greeting in no way melting the ice behind her pale eyes.

"Winterfell is yours, Your Grace."

Daenerys's expression tighten, but she pressed her lips into a thin smile and tilted her head, regally accepting the courtesy she was due.

"We don't have time for all this." Bran interrupted. "The Night King has your dragon. He's one of them now."

Daenerys's carefully collected expression flickered for a moment at the reminder of her loss. Had they been alone, Jon would have wrapped her in his arms to offer her some small semblance of comfort. But Bran was not done.

"The Wall has fallen, the dead march south."

Sansa's gaze flicked to Jon and for a fraction of a moment, he saw fear within her eyes. He saw the girl who had looked to him for protection and trusted him to keep her from the grasp of her abusers. And Jon swore silently to himself, that he would not fail her in this hour of need either.

* * *

**Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3: Sansa

**I still own nothing but my computer and more shoes than any one girl needs.**

* * *

Sansa sat at the head of the great hall with Jon by her side, as it had been the day the North named him their King. The air was thick with the smell of stale ale and sweat. It was a warm aroma, but the cold of winter pressed in on her, despite the fire at her back and the bodies tightly packed into the great hall.

She sat straight as an arrow, ignoring the desperate need to shiver. She would not show weakness before so many outsiders. Let them shiver and long for their sunny homelands. Let them believe the Lady of Winterfell was carved from Ice itself.

Despite the betrayal that she still felt at Jon's methods of gathering these allies, she was grateful to have her brother back. It felt right to once again have his quiet yet reassuring presence at her side. What did not feel right was the Targaryen woman's presence looming behind them as she stood beside the fire.

It did not go unnoticed to Sansa that the small queen refused to sit. Perhaps to ward of the chill. Perhaps fearing that her diminutive stature would diminish her authority in this place of large, burly men.

Sansa feared no such thing. She was of the north. She'd survived the Lannisters and the Boltons and reclaimed her home as well as her family name. She fought for everything she now had and she would continue to fight to keep it.

Unlike the Dragon Queen, she felt no need to posture about the city or send her dragons soaring low overhead to make a show of power. The North was not impressed by the efforts to imitate. Sansa knew well that the way to garner the respect of the North was to earn it through time, sweat, and tears.

Jon's little queen, it seemed, did not fully understand that lesson. She thought she could come here with a royal surname and a claim and that knees would bend before her. But Sansa had seen others who thought themselves worthy to rule simply because they had the privilege of being born with the right family name.

After all she had suffered at the hand of Jeoffery, she knew better than ever to blindly support a person, simply because they had the right name or title.

Jon had no name or birthright, but he had been named King in the North. He was a king because his actions were kingly, at least, that was, until he bent the knee to a foreigner.

"As soon as we heard about the Wall, I called all our banners to retreat to Winterfell." She said.

Silence weighed heavy in the room, though it was filled to capacity. She could feel the tension in the room, as though everyone held their breath to better hear her.

"Lord Umber when can we expect your people to arrive?" Her gaze sought out the young lord.

The small boy made his way to the center of the room. He was too young for the weight of his responsibilities, but that did not change the fact that they were his to bear. Sansa had been too young for many of the things she had been forced to bear. Even now, she was still young, though she no longer felt it.

"We need more horses and wagons, if it please my lady." The boy said. He spoke well for one so young. In time, he'd make a good lord. If time was something any of them had. "And my lord. And my queen." He glanced nervously at the dragon queen. "Sorry."

Sansa suppressed her amusement. She was sure the Targaryen queen did not appreciate being added last as an after thought.

"You'll have as many as we can spare. Hurry back to Last Hearth and bring your people here."

The boy nodded and hurried from the hall.

"We need to send ravens to the Night's Watch as well." Jon spoke up for the first time since introducing his queen. "There's no sense in manning the castles anymore. We make our stand here."

Sansa was glad to hear that her brother still knew how to make a stand, since he'd apparently forgotten how on his travels south to broker a peace with the Dragon Queen.

"At once, Your Grace." A Maester said, before retreating to do Jon's bidding.

"Your Grace." Lyanna Mormont rose to her feet. She commanded the entire room without even needing to demand the respect. Sansa thought Daenerys could learn thing or two from the child.

Lyanna looked at Jon with apparent disdain. "But you're not. Are you? You left Winterfell a king and came back a…. I'm not sure what you are now."

Murmuring rumbled around her and it sounded very much as though the other lords and ladies agreed with her.

Sansa stiffened, while she agreed with the sentiment, she felt a strong desire to speak up to defend Jon. She hated that he bent the knee, but she knew him well enough to be certain that he believed it to be the right thing to do.

Lyanna continued, "A lord? Nothing at all?"

"It's not important." Jon said.

"Not important? We named you King in the North."

The murmurs grew to a roar of support.

"You did, my lady. It was the honor of my life. I'll always be grateful for your faith."

Jon rose to his feet and the same silent respect the North attributed to Sansa fell to him.

"But when I left Winterfell, I told you we need allies or we will die."

Lyanna, sensing his authority, returned to her seat.

"I have brought those allies home to fight alongside us."

Sansa glanced over at the beautiful white-haired queen. The woman gazed up at Jon, her eyes gleaming with obvious adoration that made Sansa's skin crawl. She looked at Jon as though he belonged to her. Did he belong to her?

"I had a choice, keep my crown or protect the North. I chose the North." Jon said.

The murmuring built up again, but no one spoke out against him.

A chair scraped loudly as Tyrion Lannister rose to his feet, though doing so didn't make him any taller. Sansa considered the small man who had once been her husband. While she had once seen him as a monster, she knew better now. She'd seen what real monsters looked like. With the aid of experience, she could look back and appreciate the husband he had been to her. He had been gentle and kind. He had never taken a single thing from her that she did not offer.

"If anyone survives the war to come, we'll have Jon Snow to thank. He risked his life to show us the threat is real. Thanks to his courage, we have brought with us the greatest army the world has ever seen. We have brought two full-grown dragons. And soon, the Lannister army will ride north to join our cause." Tyrion said.

The protest erupted instantly and Tyrion raised his voice to speak above the growing outcry. "I know, I know, our people haven't been friends in the past.

But we must fight together now or die."

The weight of his final words shudder through the hall for a long moment.

"May I ask, how are we meant to feed the greatest army the world has ever seen? " Sansa spoke up. "While I ensured our stores would last through winter, I didn't account for Dothraki, Unsullied and two full-grown dragons. What do dragons eat, anyway?"

"Whatever they want." Daenerys said.

Sansa did not miss the implied threat as their gazes briefly met.

* * *

"Sansa," Jon called out as she strode away from the hall.

In the wake of drastically increased population of Winterfell, Sansa had intended to meet with Yohn Royce to discuss the redistribution of resources to accommodate many more mouth in want of food and bodies in want of beds.

"I am very busy, Jon." She said, not bothering to slow her gait as she crossed the yard.

She heard Jon jog to catch up with her. He caught her arm and she flinched at his touch. She didn't intend to flinch, for Jon's touch was one of the few that didn't make her insides scream and squirm in protest. But she struggled with touch of any kind if she was not expecting it, after Ramsay.

Sensing her reaction, Jon withdrew his hand.

"Speak with me." He whispered. He didn't say please, but the gentleness of his request was clear in every syllable.

Jon knew better than most what she had endured at the hands of the Lannisters and Boltons. Others knew what they had witnessed, Jon knew what she had confided in him which was so much worse.

She gave a small nod and changed direction, leading him into the castle and to her chambers.

Jon closed the door behind them as he followed her inside. She wasn't entirely comfortable having a man, even Jon, in her chambers, but she did not want any other ears to witness any words that might pass between them.

"Speak." She said, by way of invitation for him to say what he came to say.

Jon approached her, but he did not reach out to touch her this time, instead he held out a hand for her to take, should she want it. And she wanted it. She slipped her hand into his and stepped closer to him, resting her forehead against his.

Neither of them spoke right away. They just closed their eyes and breathed their intermingled air. The warm air Sansa invited into her lungs, knowing it had just been in Jon's, soothed her better than anything since Jon had headed South. A part of her had feared that like her father, uncle, and grandfather before them, Jon snow would not fair well south of Winterfell.

"I did what I had to do." Jon finally whispered.

Sansa nodded, because she knew he spoke the truth, at least his truth. While she did not trust the Dragon Queen, she knew they needed her aide if they were to have any hope of surviving the long night.

Jon wrapped his arms around her waist and her hugged him back, sensing that he was silently asking her for something. Approval? No. Forgiveness.

"And I'll do what I have to do." Sansa whispered. She felt him stiffen and hated herself for the gulf she was creating between them.

Though she knew Littlefinger would object, she did trust Jon. She trusted him as she trusted no one else, not even Bran and Arya. But that trust was not blind. She might trust Jon with her whole heart, but that didn't mean she would blindly follow.

* * *

**Not sure if anyone is interested, but writing this is cathartic. Please feel free to let me know where you think Season 8 has gone wrong and if I can't I'll do my best to remedy. Although, I must warn you, I intend to stay true to GoT, so there will be character deaths... So many deaths. But not today!**

**Will write for reviews ;) **


	4. Chapter 4: Tyrion

"Give it time, your grace." Tyrion tried to soothe his queen. "The North has never been quick to welcome strangers."

Daenerys paced in front of her raging fire, she moved like a caged tiger, both tense and fluid and riddled with an understated power.

"It was to be expected that they would be resistant to Jon's decision to bend the knee." Tyrion said. "And until he convinces Lady Sansa…"

"Lady Sansa?" Daenerys snapped, her eyes flashing like wildfire. "What do I care for Lady Sansa."

Tyrion let out a slow breath, realizing his misstep a moment too late. His queen was deeply threatened by the Northern beauty. While well loved across the sea, here she was a foreign conqueror to be treated with suspicion. Here she was not the alluring white-haired Targaryen beauty, but a figure to be mistrusted. Here, Sansa Stark was the one to whom men's eyes drifted with both respect and desire.

"The Starks are the key to the North, my queen." Tyrion said, feeling as though he was repeating himself, but he feared his advise was falling on deaf ears. "Without their allegiance, no Southern ruler, no matter how powerful, can hope to hold the North."

"I have the Starks allegiance."

"Begging your pardon, but you do not." Tyrion said, bringing the full focus of her wrath down upon himself. He tried not to squirm beneath her venomous glare.

"Jon has pledged himself to me."

"Yes. Jon _Snow_ has pledged himself to you. He may have the Stark blood, but not the name. You still need the name."

Daenerys sank into the chair across from Tyrion. "What do you suggest?"

"Not so much a suggestion as a warning." He reached out and placed his hand over hers. "Do not over play your hand. You're a queen, yes. You have earned Jon's respect and admiration, yes. But do not put him in a position where he must choose between you and the Starks. I do not believe you will like where his allegiance lands."

Daenerys stared into the flames, the light flickering in her large eyes.

"You believe he would betray me."

Tyrion considered his words very carefully before committing to them. "I believe he would never betray her."

"You mean the Starks." Daenerys corrected.

Tyrion frowned slightly, but chose to allow Daenerys her correction. It would not be wise to rile her further.

"You have given me much to think about, Lord Tyrion." She said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

* * *

Tyrion looked down on the yard where the Baratheon bastard supervised the unloading of the carts of Dragonglass. There was heaps of the glistening black rocks, but would it be enough to battle back the onslaught coming for them? Only time would tell.

He knew that the moment the stone reached the forge, those fires would be raging around the clock until the horde of frozen dead reached them. He just hoped that there would be enough time to craft enough weapons.

He saw a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and his gaze followed it to find Lady Sansa deep in conversation with her advisor Yohn Royce.

She had been a beautiful child, but she had grown into a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Though, if she realized the effect she had on men, she seemed to actively ignore it. Not that he could blame her. If half the stories he'd heard where true of what she'd endured, he would not blame her if she desired to quit the company of men for the remainder of her days.

He'd liked the girl he'd known in Kingslanding. Liked her enough to wish there was more he could have done to spare her from the torment that was inflicted on her there. He'd done what he could, respecting her chastity and staying far from their marriage bed. Still, he wished he'd done more. He wished he'd been able to protect her from all that came after Kingslanding. He only knew a small portion of what she'd endured since leaving and it was enough to make his stomach turn.

"My lord." He said as he approached the two of them. "My lady."

Yohn Royce gave him a look that made it clear they were not friends. That was fine, Tyrion wasn't looking to make friends in the North. He was looking to survive.

"My lady." Yohn Royce said to Sansa with a respectful tilt of his head to excuse himself.

Silence fell between Tyrion and the lady who had once been his lady in name only.

"The Lady of Winterfell." He said. "Has a nice ring to it."

"So does Hand of the Queen." The Northern beauty acknowledged. "Depending on the queen, I suppose."

Tyrion noted the distrust in Sansa's voice, just as he had noted the iciness she'd treated Daenerys with during every interaction. He knew he would not change her mind through debating, so he could only hope the actions of his queen would convert the Lady of Winterfell to her side. That was, if the Mother of Dragons could learn to control her temper.

Sensing it would be for the best, he changed the subject.

"Last time we spoke was at Joffrey's wedding." He said. "Miserable affair."

"It had its moments." Sansa said, with a slight edge of amusement in her voice. "Apologies for leaving like that."

"Yes, it was a bit hard to explain why my wife fled moments after the king's murder."

He'd almost been put to death as a result, after all. Though, had she stayed, he had no doubt Cersei would have seen her dead for the crime, guilty or not.

Sansa did not look overly remorseful for his suffering which she'd contributed to. He couldn't really expect her to regret leaving him, not when she'd been a pretty little pawn at the time, moved around by more powerful players.

"We both survived." She said.

Tyrion studied the woman before him for a long moment. He saw very little of the delicate child he had briefly called wife. She was no longer soft. She was no longer the pretty little thing Jeoffery delighted in tormenting. In truth, if she had a goblet of wine in his hand, he could almost think she reminded him of Cersei. Though her eyes lacked the sharp edge of cruelty which his sisters always held. No, she was better than Cersei. Unlike his sister, she would make a wise leader, both just and merciful. The North was lucky to have the likes of her.

He couldn't suppress the faint expression of awe on his face. Not only was she one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, but she had a mind to rival or perhaps even surpass his own.

"Many underestimated you. Most of them are dead now." He observed.

Sansa said nothing, but Tyrion thought he saw a hint of pride glimmer in her calculating eyes.

"I'm sure you weren't thrilled to hear the Lannister army's marching north. You have every right to be fearful of my sister. No one fears her more than I do." He continued. "But I promise, you'll be safe"

He noticed something close to amusement in her expression and realized that while she was wary of Cersei, she did not fear her. She'd grown too much to be a quaking child when faced with her childhood nightmares.

"Cersei told you her army was coming north to fight for you?" Sansa asked

"She did."

"And you believed her?"

The cold dread of doubt filled his gut for the first time since his private conversation with his sister.

"She has something to live for now." Tyrion said, as much to convince the Lady Sansa as to reassure himself. "I believe she wants to survive."

"I used to think you were the cleverest man alive." She said. There was no mockery in her words which only serve to make their sting more keenly felt.

She swept away before he could think of a clever retort.

His chest tightened with a sudden anxiety that perhaps he had been wrong about his sister's intentions. Mind troubled, Tyrion looked out across the yard. He spotted the crippled Stark boy looking at him. No… looking through him.

* * *

**Alright readers! So far my plan is for the Episode 1 story to follow the actual episode fairly closely. There will be some added scenes and lots of added subtext. But if there a character you felt was wrongly ignored in the first episode that deserves to be a POV character, give them a shout out! I'd love to hear from you via Reviews and PMs, and while I might not be able to make all requests works, I will definitely take anything under consideration!**

**Please review, it makes my day! **


	5. Chapter 5: Arya

Arya's breath caught in her lungs at the sight of the familiar figure standing at the base of the weirwood tree. She'd caught a glimpse of him riding beside the Queen, but at such a distance and surrounded by an army, he might as well have been a stranger. He made a hulking figure, layered in furs like their father before him. Though he hadn't reached the height of Ned Stark, there was something in his bearing that reminded Arya of their long dead father. She had no doubt that the honorable Lord Stark would have been proud of the man his bastard had become. His unladylike daughter? Perhaps less so.

"You used to be taller."

Jon turned around, caught off guard, something he was likely unaccustomed to after his years in the Night's Watch.

"How did you sneak up on me?" He asked.

She thought about the answer to that question. It was a long question and one they didn't have time to discuss at length, not with the Night King and his army drawing ever closer. Perhaps, if they both survived, she would tell him about all of it. But not today.

"How did you survive a knife through the heart?"

"I didn't."

The joy of the reunion bubbled up past the awkwardness and Jon pulled her into an embrace that felt more like home than anything she'd experienced since she left Winterfell all those years ago.

She pulled away and drew her sword to show him.

"You still have it." Jon said, clearly amazed.

Did he really doubt that she would have died rather than be separated from the last shred of who she'd been before this all began?

She beamed in pride. "Needle."

"Have you ever used it?"

Her smile faltered. While Jon had always been accepting of her, she didn't know if that acceptance could stretch as far as she had traveled since they'd last met. She'd told herself she'd done what she had to in order to survive. But there was a fine line between surviving and living, and she seemed to move further from the living every day.

"Once or twice." She confessed.

Jon drew his own sword to show her.

"Valyrian steel."

Jon grinned and for a moment he was transformed into the boy she'd known.

"Jealous?" He asked.

She scoffed. "Too heavy for me."

He replace the blade in its sheath and let out a sigh.

"Where were you before? I could've used your help with Sansa."

Arya smirked. She rather doubted anyone could help him with Sansa. Sansa was no longer a little girl obsessed with lemon cakes and pretty dresses. She had changed as much as, if not more than, Arya. While Arya had turned her body into a weapon, Sansa had turned her mind into one.

"She doesn't like your queen, does she?" Arya surmised. She wasn't surprised. Sansa had endured too much to like, let alone trust, anyone who was to family.

"Sansa thinks she's smarter than everyone."

_Sansa is smarter than everyone_. Arya had seen how effortlessly her sister had manipulated Littlefinger, one of the greatest minds in Westeros, leading him to his own execution like a lamb to the slaughter.

"She's the smartest person I've ever met." Arya admitted.

"Now you're defending her?" Jon laughed. "You?"

"I'm defending our family." She gave him a pointed look. "So is she."

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._ Jon and Arya were warriors, but it would take more than a couple of fighters to survive the long night. Sansa was a tactician. If they even hoped to survive, it would be by heeding her. And that included mistrusting anyone who was not family.

"I'm her family too." Jon said.

Arya frowned slightly at his choice of words. He said he was _h__er_ family. Not their family. She studied her brother for a long moment. They had always been more like each other than any of their siblings. The time apart had taught Arya an appreciation for her sister. Had it taught Jon something more than that?

"Don't forget that." She warned. Their grip on the North was tenuous at best, and with the addition of an outsider queen, tensions where high. The last thing any of them needed to do was something that would drive a wedge into on of the factions.

* * *

Arya wandered through the camps of Daenerys armies. While the usual sounds of violence, shouting, and the distinct moaning of whores filled the Dothraki camp, the legions of Unsullied where different. As she meandered through their camps, she was impressed by the silence. She'd heard stories of the Unsullied and their unparalleled discipline, but she had expected those stories to be an exaggerations.

She saw Brienne of Tarth striding down the path between the tents and she slid in step beside her. She had to take twice as many strides to keep up with the towering woman, but she was quite used to physical exertion so it didn't bother her.

"Sansa sent you to scope out the queen's army?" Arya surmised.

"Lady Arya." Brienne objected, seemingly quite concerned that her very obvious motives had been detected by a cursory glance.

Arya considered reminding Brienne yet again that there was no need to preface her name with Lady, but she figured it was pointless. The woman was rigid in her obedience to courtly behavior, so Arya supposed if she felt the need to call her a lady, she'd suffer through it.

"And how do you find the Dragon Queens forces?" Arya asked, genuinely interested. She, herself, was lethal in close quarters, but she had never been a soldier and knew little of what made one campaign a success and another fail.

"They are… formidable." Brienne said. With the impending onslaught of the dead, Arya would have supposed this to be a good thing, but based on the tall woman's expression, she thought perhaps Sansa would disagree.

"She's not planning something stupid, is she?" Arya asked.

Brienne glanced at her, her expression tight.

"Lady Sansa is never stupid."

Arya chewed on her lip, thoughtfully.

"But perhaps you should speak with her privately, anyway." Brienne said, in a low and somewhat urgent whisper.

* * *

**Please Review!**


	6. Chapter 6: Cersei

Cersei sat stiffly on the Iron Throne. Funny, she'd spent so much time scheming to not only get, but keep this seat, but she did rather hate sitting in it. She could never relax while she sat in it, if she did, it was far to easy to cut herself on one of the many blades.

Perhaps that was intentional. A reminder to all monarchs who thought to rule the Seven Kingdoms. When one ruled, they could never relax. There would always be a willing usurper waiting in the wings.

"Twenty-thousand men, is it?" Cersei asked.

Captain Strickland cut a handsome figure in his gleaming armor. He reminded her slightly of her twin, back before these endless wars had tarnished his beauty and cost him his sword hands. Now he was a cripple and a pale shadow of the glorious lion she had been pleased to call her lover. Let the North have him. What did she care what that useless man did? If he wanted to run off to the North to fight for the Starks and that blonde cow, then good riddance. She only kept him around because it pleased her to make love to her mirror image, anyway.

She ignored the ache in her chest that testified the lie in her thoughts.

"Yes, Your Grace." The golden companies dashing commander assured her. He shot his companion a look that spoke of his distaste. "A few died in transit."

Cersei looked over at the vulgar man who had the audacity to call himself a king. King of the Iron Islands. Euron Greyjoy leered at her. He looked as though he had not washed in weeks and Cersei thought that guess was likely generous.

"They cheated at dice. Or maybe I cheated. Someone cheated. They weren't good fighters." He said, as though that excused everything. "You won't miss them."

"Horses?" Cersei asked, ignoring the royal ruffian.

"Two thousand."

"And elephants?" Cersei had never seen one of the beasts herself, but she'd read about them as a child in her father's library and knew they were formidable steeds in battle. While Jaime had busied himself playing at being a knight, she had sharpened her mind. That was way she was a queen and he was nothing.

"No elephants, Your Grace." Captain Strickland said, apologetically.

"That's disappointing." Cersei drummed her fingers in displeasure. "I was told the Golden Company had elephants."

"They are excellent beasts, Your Grace, but not well-suited to long sea voyages." The Captain explained.

Cersei waved off his excuses.

"In any event, you are most welcome here in King's Landing, Captain Strickland."

"We look forward to fighting on your behalf, Your Grace." The Captain said, bowing and making his exit.

"Am I most welcome here?" Euron asked, not taking the captain's lead.

"You are a true friend of the crown and an honored guest." Cersei said, giving him the barest hint of a smile. The man repulsed her, but he had his uses and she could not afford to lose his friendship, no matter how abhorrent she found it.

"Good." Euron's leer widened. "As a true friend and an honored guest… I was hoping we could talk in private."

Cersei suppressed a shudder at the thought of the dirty pirates meaning.

"After the war." She insisted. "That was our agreement."

"Wars sometimes last years." He said.

He was right. And though she didn't want to admit it, she did not have years. The child in her belly was growing and it's presence would be undeniable in a very short amount of time. By her estimation, she was nearing the end of her third month. She had no doubt that a man such as Euron Greyjoy would have no interest in fighting to defend a queen with another man's bastard in her belly.

"You want a whore, buy one." She sneered, not wanting to accept the truth she knew, that she would have to take unpleasant actions to keep the Iron Fleet in her grasp. "You want a queen earn her."

"How? I've given her justice, an army and the Iron Fleet, yet she gives me no sign of affection." He drew closer and the Mountain shifted protectively. "My heart is nearly broken."

"You're insolent." Cersei warned. "I've executed men for less."

"They were lesser men."

* * *

Cersei knew well how to please a man. She also knew how to convince a man that he had pleased her as well. She moaned and cried out Euron's name, dragging her nails down his back, assuming, correctly, that he was the kind of man who enjoyed a little bit of pain.

After he came, she felt hollow and disgusted. While he was better in bed, he reminded her of Robert, he treated her body like he owned it. Jaime had always treated her with worshipful adoration, even when he on occasion got a little too rough or demanding, she still knew she was the one with the power. That if she ever truly wanted to, she could make her loyal twin heel.

"You can't stay through the night." She told Euron as she got out of bed and pulled on her robe. "The servants will talk."

"Fuck the servants."

"Do as you will with your own reputation. I will not have people saying that Euron Greyjoy fucked the queen." She gave him a warning glare as she poured her wine.

"But I did fuck the queen." He leered.

Her stomach turned and she took another long draw of wine, looking out the window as Euron pulled on his pants.

"I wanted those elephants." She lamented.

"So how do I compare to the fat king?" Euron asked, obviously not even listening to her.

"You're insulting my late husband?"

"Are you offended?"

Her distaste for her late husband was widely known, so she did not see the point in pretending differently now.

"Robert had a different whore every night, but he still didn't know his way around a woman's body." She admitted.

"And the Kingslayer?" Euron teased.

"You enjoy risking your neck, don't you?"

He chuckled. "Life is boring."

"You're not boring, I'll give you that." She looked him over, despite his repulsive manners and behavior in general, she had to admit she did find him amusing.

"Do I please the queen?" He asked.

"You might be the most arrogant man I've ever met." She said, but not unkindly. "I like that."

And he liked that she liked it.

"But now I want to be alone." She told him dismissively.

Euron drew close to her, stinking of sweat and alcohol. Almost tenderly, his hand sliding down to her belly which she hoped he wouldn't notice was growing rounder by the day.

"I'm going to put a prince in your belly." He assured her.

She gave him a small smile, like that was actually something she would want. Taking the encouragement, the repulsive man departed.

Once he was gone, Cersei pulled out paper and quill and scratched out an urgent message. Blowing the inky words dry, she rose to her feet and took it to the ravens, not even trusting Qyburn with these particular words.

* * *

**Thank you to everyone for the follows/favorites/reviews. I genuinely appreciate the support and interest. I've decided that I should up the rating to M between language and upcoming sexual content. My current plan is for this story (episode 1) to be roughly 16 chapters, but if I get requests for POV characters that have not been included in those chapters and I can work their narrative into the story, that number could increase. As always, please review! **


	7. Chapter 7: Theon

Theon drew the string of his bow with practiced ease. He didn't have to watch to know that the arrow would find it's mark through the eye of one of the Iron Born. He hated killing his own kinsmen, but hated more the knowledge that these lecherous bastards had chosen to follow his uncle Euron over his sister Yara simply because one of them had a dick and the other did not.

Not that he could claim to have been all that different in the days before he become as dickless as his sister. He could not claim himself to be a good man. These days he wasn't even sure he could claim himself to be a man at all.

Slicing down the last of the guards in his way, Theon found his sister bound in Euron's cabin. She looked unwashed and disgruntled, but as far as he could see she was unharmed. _Thank the drowned god_. He had assumed he would find her here in Euron's cabin. There was only one thing that the peacocking bastard like better than an audience and that was a trophy. With Yara, he had both.

Theon hurried to his sister's side and released her from her bonds.

She scrambled to her feet on legs unsteady from disuse. He thought to reach out to steady her, but instead received her brow bone to his nose. The unexpected attack sent him him sprawling to the floor. After a moment, she offered him her hand and help him to his feet.

"You're a cowardly, prickless bastard." She said. "You know that right?"

Remembering how he'd throne himself into the water to escape his uncle, leaving Yara and the sand snakes to his merciless mercy, he knew better than to disagree. She was right. He had been a coward and he had been one for years. It had made him weak and spineless and easily manipulated. It had led him to betray the only family he had ever known, when he stabbed the Starks in the back by seizing Winterfell, when their attention was drawn away by the threat of the Lannisters in the South. So many terrible things had happened since, and most of which were at least in part his fault.

"I'm here now, aren't I?" Then said, as though that made up for the rest. But it didn't. He knew it didn't. And he was quite sure he could spend the rest of his days trying and not make a dent in the wrongs he'd done. But that no longer seemed like enough of a reason not to try.

* * *

They stole back to Theon's waiting ships with relative ease. Euron's ships were undermanned and his men undisciplined. Many were either far gone with alcohol or had stolen away to the shore to find whores.

By morning, they were set on a Northwest baring and many click from the rest of the Iron Fleet.

Yara breathed deep the salty air as they gazed across the deep blue of open water.

Theon remembered those first breaths of freedom well, after he'd escaped Ramsey and seen Sansa safely into the hands of the honorable Brienne of Tarth.

Honor was something Theon had lost long ago, along with his manhood. Brienne made an oath to Lady Caitlyn and honored it to the good lady's death and beyond. Theon had forgotten all bonds of honor and loyalty to Robb, the closest thing he had to a brother, with barely a second thought. Sure, he was only one of the many betrayals that lead the young wolf to his eventual bloody end, but he had been the first and that was not a regret he would easily forget.

"Euron can't defend the Iron Islands, not if he's in King's Landing with all his men and his ships." Yara spoke out, and Theon realize his tactically oriented sister had been making plans while he'd been dwelling in past sins. "We can take our home back."

Theon's bowels twisted with unease. "Daenerys went north."

"Daenerys will need somewhere to retreat if they can't hold the North." Yara said, and Theon knew she was right. Taking back their home was the greatest services she could offer her queen. "Somewhere the dead can't go."

He understood and agreed, but he felt a swell of guilt at the prospect. While the Iron Islands were the land of his birth, unlike Yara, they were not his home.

Though he'd betrayed the ties that bound him to them many times, his home was Winterfell, his home was the Starks.

"You're my queen." Theon submitted. "I go where you command."

Yara turned and looked at him, hearing something in his tone that he had tried to mask.

"You want to go to Winterfell." She said, seeing straight through him. "To fight for the Starks."

Theon could not deny it, they both knew the truth of her words.

"Go." She said, almost kindly. Adding in farewell, "What is dead may never die."

"What is dead may never die." Theon echoed.

She takes his hand and pulls him into a hug.

"But kill the bastards anyway." She said. And that was one order he intended to keep, even at the cost of his own life.

Theon longed to say something deep and meaningful, because he knew as he was sure she likely did as well, that both their paths were full of peril and it was unlikely that their paths would cross again. But emotional goodbyes were not the way of the Iron Born.

* * *

**Short chapter, but I received some wonderful reviews today that made me happy so I thought I'd make you all happy as well with an extra chapter! The next chapter takes us back to Winterfell, so stay tuned!**

**Please review!**


	8. Chapter 8: Tyrion

In the bustling yard, Tyrion, Davos, and Varys watched as a small force of banner men, sporting a sigil of a yellow sun on a black field, reigned in their steeds.

"The Karstarks." Varys said, recognizing the the sigil.

Tyrion wondered if this was the first time the eunuch had ever seen the sigil anywhere other than in a book.

"One of the better sigils." Tyrion said. "Beats an onion, anyway."

"Can't argue with that." Davos agreed. The smuggler turned knight had never had an overly inflated opinion of himself or his well deserved elevation to knight, one of the many things Tyrion genuinely appreciated about the man.

"Not so long ago, the Starks and the Karstarks were slaughtering each other on the battlefield." Davos pointed out as they wove their way through the busy yard. "Jon Snow brought peace to the houses."

"And our queen is grateful." Tyrion said, frowning slightly, unsure of what the old man was getting at.

"Her gratitude is lovely, but that's not my point." Davos pressed. "The Northmen are loyal to Jon Snow, not to her. They don't know her. The Free Folk don't know her. I've been up here a while, and I'm telling you, they're stubborn as goats. You want their loyalty, you have to earn it."

They climbed up to the ramparts, an effort Tyrion didn't particularly enjoy.

"I sense that you're leading to a proposal." He said, breathing heavily as he reached the top of the castle wall.

"A proposal is what I'm proposing." Davos said. "On the off chance that we survive the Night King, what if the Seven Kingdoms, for once in their whole shit history, were ruled by a just woman and an honorable man?"

Tyrion had briefly considered the same when he first saw Jon approach the queen's cabin on their voyage to White Harbor. That consideration faded quickly when they returned to Winterfell. He saw the way Jon looked at his sister, and more importantly, how often he actively avoided looking at her. Growing up as brother to Cersei and Jaime and taught him to see things that others might not see. Secret longings that others might dismiss without a second thought simply because they were widely considered wrong. But people did many wrong things, most of which in the name of love.

Jon might desire Daenerys, he could well even care for her, but Tyrion did not believe he would agree to marry her.

The three men looked out at the encampment where Jon and Daenerys walked together among the soldiers, Daenerys beaming at the handsome bastard like a lovestruck school girl.

"They do make a handsome couple." He admitted, slightly disheartened by the fact that this very favorable solution would never gain tractions, because Ned's bastard's heart lay elsewhere, a very problematic elsewhere at that.

"You overestimate our influence." Varys told Jon's advisor. "Jon and Daenerys don't want to listen to lonely old men."

Tyrion shot a dirty look at the eunuch. "I'm not that old. Not as old as him."

Davos chuckled as Tyrion jerked his head in the aged smuggler's direction.

"Our queen respects the wisdom of age." Tyrion said, quite certain if it was only Daenerys he had to convince that it could be done with relative ease.

"Of course she does." Varys agreed. "Respect is how the young keep us at a distance, so we don't remind them of an unpleasant truth."

"What is that?" Tyrion asked.

"Nothing lasts." Varys said, giving Tyrion a pointed look that made him wonder if the eunuch might be harboring similar suspicions to his own.

* * *

"Lord Tyrion." Sansa announced her presence at the open door of the Hand's chambers.

Tyrion looked up from his book at the sound of her voice and offered her a welcoming smile.

"Lady Sansa." He said. "Thank you for coming."

He indicated for her to take a seat near him and she swept in with her easy grace, settling on the waiting seat, but she did not relax into the seat. It looked as though someone as forged her spine out of a bar of steel.

He poured her a goblet of wine and she politely took a sip.

"You said you had urgent affairs of state on which you needed my counsel." Sansa said, studying him with those icy eyes.

"And so I do." Tyrion nodded. "Just this afternoon, I was again reminded of the precarious peace that has been established between the queen and the North."

He did not need to specify that the precarious piece of this puzzle was in fact Sansa herself, the beauty beside him had been far too diligent a student of Littlefinger not to be aware of this fact.

"You seek a more lasting solution." Sansa surmised with ease.

"I do."

"You mean for Jon to marry your queen." Sansa said, her tone icy and her expression unreadable.

"It makes a kind of sense, does it not?" Tyrion asked, leaning over to top off her goblet with wine. He'd hoped that liquor would help loosen her tongue, but the ability to hold her drink was apparently one of the many lessons she'd learned from his sister. "To place a honorable man and a wise woman on the throne."

Sansa raised an eyebrow, "That is assuming your queen is wise. I've yet to see her wisdom."

"She has the right name and an army at her back, what she needs is a way into the hearts of the people." Tyrion explained.

"I fully comprehend your reasoning and intentions, Lord Tyrion." Sansa said, her words short and clipped. "What I don't understand is why you've come to me to discuss them."

"Because Jon looks to you," Tyrion said, studying her reaction. "He heeds your counsel, perhaps more than any other."

"He left the North to meet with _your_ queen. Bent the knee to _your_ queen." Sansa said, her voice growing colder with each word, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Believe me when I say he did not heed _my_ counsel in either of those decisions."

_Ah, so that is the crux,_ Tyrion surmised, _Sansa would like the queen more, if Jon liked her less_.

"I understand that you may not agree with the union, but I must know. Would you openly opposed it?" He asked. He knew he was backing her into a corner. He also knew that was a dangerous position to put a wolf in, but for the sake of his position as Hand he had to be aware of all threats to his queen. Crumbling loyalties was definitely a threat.

Sansa looked surprised for a moment and then her eyes narrowed as she fought to retain her composure.

"If Jon wished to wed Daenerys, I would not stand in the way." She said.

Knowing her too well to imagine that she chose a single word lightly, Tyrion felt assured that Sansa was as certain as he was that Jon's affections were not firmly in the control of the Dragon Queen, despite what Davos might have imagine.

He doesn't love Daenerys, of that Tyrion was now quite sure. He either could not or would not give his heart to Daenerys, because whether he'd admitted it or not, he'd already bestowed his heart on another.

"He's a lucky man." Tyrion said, giving Sansa a pointed look.

"To be loved by a woman as beautiful as Daenerys?" Sansa asked. "I imagine most men would agree with you."

Tyrion sipped his wine, quite enjoying this game of wits in which they were engaging.

"Yes, to be loved by a woman as beautiful as the queen… more beautiful, some might say." He countered, gauging her reaction.

She stared into the fire and took a sip of her wine, but he saw a slight rise in the color in his cheeks. So there it was. If Jon did feel more than brotherly love for his half-sister, as Tyrion felt quite sure he did, it was clear that those affections where not one sided.

"Take care, Lady Sansa." Tyrion warned, but there was nothing but genuine caring in his voice. "The higher you rise, the further you have to fall. One misstep could prove fatal."

Sansa sat down her drink and met his gaze evenly.

"I was just a child when I began to play this game." She said, her voice a bit sad. "I did not know the stakes when I asked to be dealt in. I dreamed of marrying a handsome prince. I fancied myself destined to be a queen. I did not know then what it was I was asking for. I know now. Were it in my power, I would forfeit my hand, but no one gets to quit the game of thrones, Lord Tyrion."

Wise, she was too wise for her own good, and just as trapped as the rest of them. He nodded in understanding and regret.

"You win or you die." Tyrion acknowledged.

* * *

**I hope everyone enjoyed last night's bonus chapter and this one as well! Thank you again to everyone who has taken the time to join me on this journey. I apologize for any errors, I review my chapters before posting, but I'm not the best editor. If anyone is interested in being a beta for me, please don't hesitate to reach out. Additionally, a special thanks to those who have taken the time to leave reviews, they make me so happy!**

**Please Review!**


	9. Chapter 9: Daenerys

"Your sister doesn't like me." Daenerys said, seeing no need to broach the subject like a tentative maid. She was a queen. She saw no need to hedge around an awkward truth.

She also didn't see the need to specify which sister. While she knew there was a second Stark girl, the Lady of Winterfell was the only one who counted for her purposes.

"She doesn't know you." Jon said, making excuses, but she could sense he was uncomfortable with this topic. "If it makes you feel any better, she didn't like me either when we were growing up."

Daenerys pressed her lips together, not appreciating the implied fact that Sansa did, in fact, like him now.

"She doesn't need to be my friend but I am her queen." Daenerys pointed out. "If she can't respect me…"

One of her Dothraki came to her, speaking in a rush about her children.

"What's the matter?" Jon asked.

"The dragons are barely eating."

She hurried in the direction of her children, not waiting to see if Jon would follow. When she reached Drogon and Rhagael, Jon was still by her side.

She approached Drogon and caressed his massive muzzle. He let out a low rumble that could have been mistaken as a growl, but Daenerys knew to be more akin to a purr.

"What's wrong with them?" Jon asked.

"They don't like the North."

She climbed up onto Drogon's back with practiced ease.

Rhagael studied Jon with interest, and Daenerys had the strangest suspicion that should her lover try, the smaller dragon would allow him to ride.

"Go on." Daenerys called down to the handsome Northman.

"I don't know how to ride a dragon." Jon said, with a nervous glance in her direction.

Daenerys smirked at that.

"Nobody does." She said. "Until they ride a dragon."

Jon inched closer to the mammoth beast. Her beautiful darling.

"What if he doesn't want me to?"

"Then I've enjoyed your company, Jon Snow." She teased.

Rising to the challenge, Jon struggled to climb up to Rhagaels back, grunting at the effort.

"What do I hold onto?" Jon asked as he reached his destination.

"Whatever you can." Daenerys called as she encouraged Drogon to take to the sky.

The wind whipped through her hair as her children took them further and further from the cares of the impending war with the dead. She couldn't help but be amazed by the beauty of the North as they danced through the air. Occasionally, she heard Jon yelp or shout as Rhagael dove and glided. At least that meant he found something to hold onto.

When the dragons touched down in an isolated canyon, Daenerys slid down to the untouched snow. It crunched beneath her boots. There was something wild and untamed about this country. She liked untamed things. It's part of what attracted her to Jon. He was not like Dario, who while a bit of a rouge, was always eager to please her. He was more like Drogo. Wild and unknown. Even when Jon touched her, she did not know his mind. She could not control him. Tried though she did, he did not bend the knee to her until he did it on his own terms.

"You've completely ruined horses for me." Jon told her as he crunched through the snow to join her.

She laughed at that and then looked in wonder at the froze waterfall. She'd known the North was cold, but she'd never imagined any place could be this cold.

"We could stay a thousand years no one would find us." She said, half wishing that was something they could actually do.

"We'd be pretty old." Jon laughed. "It's cold up here for a southern girl."

"So keep your queen warm." She draped her arms around his neck, drawing him into a passionate kiss. He pulled away slightly. Then she heard one of her children growl softly. "Don't be afraid."

Jon studied the dragons, but she didn't see fear in his eyes. Caution, yes, but not fear.

"We should get back." Jon said.

"Oh…" Daenerys frowned at this. She knew he was preoccupied with the preparations for the battle to come. Still, he had not shared her bed since they'd disembarked from the skip. She wanted to believe it was due to the distractions of the impending danger, but as much as she wished to believe it, it felt less like a distraction and more like he was slipping away from her. No… more like someone was drawing him away from her.

* * *

Daenerys closed her eyes, trying to relax, trying to enjoy the feeling of Missandei's fingers on her scalp as she carefully removed the braids that where making her head ache.

She had Dothraki ladies who were happy to tend to her hair, but sometimes she preferred the companionship of a single, trusted friend.

"What do you think of the North?" She asked.

Missandei's fingers stilled momentarily as she searched for the words she wanted to speak. She was always slow to speak, as she chose each word carefully. Daenerys admired her for her careful nature. She even tried to emulate it from time to time. Though, sometimes her temper won out over reason.

"It a very different sort place." Missandei admitted. "Very isolated. Very suspicious."

Daenerys had to agree with the assessment, Winterfell, like it's Lady Sansa, was neither warm nor welcoming to visitors. Jon had warned her that the North did not like outsiders, but she had not expected the feeling of being treated as other.

Not only did they mistrust her, it seemed they didn't even desire to provide her with an opportunity to earn their trust.

Daenerys had set aside her own campaign to come to their aid, only to be treated like a foreign invader instead of a potential ally and welcome friend.

"I thought it would feel different." Daenerys admitted.

"The North?" Missandei asked.

"Come home to Westeros." Daenerys said.

She'd come so far and suffered so much to come home, only to find an inhospitable country that didn't want her. She'd been warned that the small folk did not care who sat on the Iron Throne, but it was different to experience it firsthand.

"Have you spoken with Lord Snow?" Missandei asked. "Perhaps he could offer insight on how you might ingratiate yourself to the people."

"I am a queen." Daenerys snapped, riling at the idea of turning to Jon for aide when he was keeping her at arms length. "I will not grovel for scraps from those who should kneel before me."

Missandei bowed her head obediently but said no more.

* * *

**For those who are wondering about my decision to take season 8 in a Jon/Sansa direction. There are several motives behind this. One of those motives behind this is that for all the build up between Jon and Daenerys, when they did eventually meet, I felt as though there was very little chemistry between them. Whereas Kit and Sophie have a natural sizzle. In my opinion, as a writer in a medium where actor interaction brings the story to life, you have to be ready to pivot from your original plans in favor of interactions that flow more naturally. **

**Please review!**


	10. Chapter 10: Arya

It was easy enough to move through Winterfell unnoticed. With so many unfamiliar faces hurrying from place to place, no one took notice of one waif like young woman picking carefully through the chaos. She didn't even need to employ her training from the House of Black and White.

Here, in a place that had once been her home, she had finally learned what it was to be no one.

She made her way to the forge, weaving around people who were to preoccupied in their preparations for the nightmares to come.

She spotted Gendry almost immediately as she entered. Everything was dim and grimy and the heat managed to cut through the winter day with more force than the roaring fires in the great hall.

"It isn't easy making a blade that big with dragonglass." Gendry said, sounding as stubborn and bullheaded as she remembered.

He looked very much the same as well. His hair was shorter, his arms more muscular, and a few lines on his forehead that had not been there when she'd known him before. But he was still Gendry. Sadness tugged lightly in her heart. He was still Gendry, but she hadn't been Arry in a very long time.

"You're saying you're good, is that it?" The Hound said, sounding bored and like he might stab someone just for the distraction.

Her heart quickened at the sound of the brutal man's voice. He was just a imposing as she remembered. Despite leaving him for dead, he looked none the worse for wear after his encounter with Brienne of Tarth.

Strange now, looking back, to realize that both had fought to protect her, unable to trust that the other's intentions where just as pure. Strange that their very efforts to protect her were the same actions that left her without a defender. The same actions that took her to the faceless men where she learned to defend herself.

"I'm just saying it's a tricky material to…"

"You know who makes weapons for the wildlings? Cripples and cocksuckers." Sandor said, moving closer to the blacksmith, using his enormous size to intimidate. "Which one are you?"

"Leave him be." Arya spoke up, drawing attention for the first time that day.

Both Gendry and Sandor looked at her. Recognition dawning on Gendry's face a moment after the Hound's.

"I heard you were here." The Hound considered her for a moment. His frown deepened. "You left me to die."

Of course.

"First I robbed you."

The Hound moved closer to her, the axe Gendry had made for him gripped tightly in his hands. For a moments she wondered if he was going to swing it at her.

"You're a cold little bitch, aren't you?" He asked. Then she saw something that looked almost like a hint of pride in his eyes. "Guess that's why you're still alive."

With that, the Hound left. Arya looked at Gendry who was watching her with curiosity after that exchange.

"That was a nice ax you made for him." Arya said. "You've gotten better."

"Yeah, thanks." Gendry said. "So have you… I mean, you look good."

Her face felt hot. Was she blushing? She couldn't remember the last time someone made her blush. Actually, she did. And it was the same person as stood before her now. But she wasn't so sure that she was the same person as the last time.

"Thanks." She said. "So do you."

"It's not a bad place to grow up, if it wasn't so cold." Gendry said, gesturing to the surrounding, already resorting to small talk. She couldn't blame him. They couldn't claim to know each other anymore, not after all this time.

"Stay close to that forge, then."

His eyes twinkled with amusement. "Is that a command, Lady Stark?"

Her heart sped up a pinch, reminded of those times when he'd teased her about being a lady. It seemed like another life. She'd done what she'd had to do to survive since then. But a part of her, a not so small part, wished she could go back to those days. While not carefree, they had been simpler.

"Don't call me that." She told him.

"As you wish, milady."

Milady. The word both stung and thrilled her. The last time he'd called her milady, she'd begged him to stay with her, to be her family. What might their lives have been if only he'd said yes?

She swallowed hard and pulled out her drawing.

"Here's my wish." She said, showing him the design. "Can you make it?"

"What do you need something like this for?" He asked, which seemed like a rather stupid question to her considering the approaching battle.

"Can you make it or not?"

"You already have a sword." Gendry said and noticed the hilt of her dagger. "What's that?"

She drew the dagger and passed it to him to inspect.

"It's Valyrian steel." He observed and smirked at her. "I always knew you were just another rich girl."

"You don't know any other rich girls." Arya reminded him before reclaiming the dagger and walking away, stealing a glance back and flashing him a final playful smile.

* * *

Arya waited for Sansa in her chambers. She knew her sister was busy preparing for the evacuation of the women and children. She knew that as a Stark and a Lady, she was expected to help her sister with such things. But that had never been her. Leave the management to Sansa. Leave the fighting to Arya.

Arya would fight the dead and her sister would make sure there was a people left to fight for.

When Sansa stepped into her chambers, she look bone tired. She closed her eyes for a moment and let out a slow breath. Arya wondered how she did it, how she retained her composure as so many looked to her for hope and guidance. Arya could retain her composure, but she had not been born to be a beacon of hope, not like Sansa.

"When do you leave?" Arya asked.

Sansa's eyes snapped open and found Arya instantly. She didn't scold her for invading her privacy, likely realizing that it would be futile.

"The women and children will leave out in three days time. I received a raven House Reed this morning. The Crannogmen have agreed to open their halls to us in our hour of need."

Arya frowned. "The Neck is a long way, Sansa. If Winterfell falls, you won't reach it before the dead overtake you.

Sansa gave her a sad, almost pitying look and Arya realized that Sansa had already considered this. Of course she had. Sansa wasn't a fool, no matter if Arya was forever struggling not to see her as the vapid child she'd been when they first parted.

"If Winterfell falls, it won't matter." Sansa whispered.

She shrugged off her cloak and took a seat by the fire. The flames played trick on her pretty face, making her appear much older.

"Brienne seemed to be under the impression you're planning to do something stupid." Arya said to change the subject.

Sansa gave her a look, because they both know that was not something the Maid of Tarth would have said, especially not about the lady she served.

"You don't like the queen." Arya said, hoping to push the conversation in a more illuminating direction.

"I like her fine." Sansa said with an expression that spoke to the contrary.

"But you won't submit to her." Arya said.

"The North has suffered enough at the hands of an outside ruler." Sansa said.

"Jon trusts her."

"Jon is too trusting."

Arya studied her sister for a long moment. What was she planning? She was too much like Littlefinger to have no plans in the works.

"Maybe." She agreed. "But we do need her."

Sansa frowned. "I'm well aware."

"Jon knows who his family is." Arya assure her. "He won't forget that just because the queen is beautiful."

A dark look crossed Sansa's face that Arya couldn't place.

"I have messages to tend to." Sansa said, indicating several rolls of paper on her table. And Arya could recognize a dismissal when she saw one.

* * *

**Thank you for all the feedback, I love seeing your thoughts!**

**Please review!**


	11. Chapter 11: Jon

Jon knew Daenerys likely expected him to suggest they dine together in her chambers or his after their flight that afternoon, but he did not. It wasn't that he didn't still desire the beautiful queen, but now, being back in the North, back in Winterfell, it felt different. He knew he should seek out his queen, serve her in anyway she wished, but she was not the one he wanted to keep counsel with. Instead, he found himself at the door to Sansa's chamber.

He didn't know for sure if she was there, or if she was if she would be alone. There were plenty men who would like nothing more than to bed the beautiful Sansa Stark. But no. Jon could not imagine her willing letting any man she did not trust into her bed after what she'd endured at the hands of the Bolton bastard. Even though Ramsay was long dead, the thought of his hands on Sansa was still enough to make Jon's stomach turn.

He knocked on the door.

" Come in."

Jon slipped inside, obeying immediately.

Sansa glanced up for just a moment from the note she read by candlelight. She was always beautiful, but never more so than by candlelight where the flickering light turned her red hair to tendrils of flame.

"Lord Glover wishes us good fortune, but he's staying in Deepwood Motte with his men." She read aloud for his benefit. When she released the paper and it wound in on itself, eager to return to its tight roll, as though afraid to face the wrath its words would kindle.

She studied his reaction from her seat and Jon couldn't help but feel as though this was some kind of test. Judging by her remote expression, he had a feeling it was one he was failing.

"_House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years. _Isn't that what he said?" Jon asked. He could feel his outrage rising and burning in his cheeks.

"_I will stand behind Jon Snow_, he said." Sansa corrected, rise to her feet abruptly. She looked back at him and there was anger in her, hot enough to burn through her carefully crafted shell of ice. "_The King in the North._"

She stormed away. Though he was glad to see her feel something, he wished it wasn't anger, and that it wasn't directed at him.

"I told you we needed allies." He said.

This stopped her, but there was only so far she could go in her chambers when the door stood behind Jon. While the last thing he wanted was for her to feel trapped, he was grateful that she couldn't leave before the conversation was finished.

"You didn't tell me you were going to abandon your crown." She said, her back to him.

He followed her, wanting her to turn around, wanting to see her face. He hadn't realized how hard it had been for him to watch her turn to ice until he saw the cracks in it.

"I never wanted a crown." He said _But you did, didn't you? You still do._ He realized, but he didn't dare say it out loud. "All I wanted was to protect the North. I brought two armies home with me, two dragons."

She whirled on him, her fiery hair fanning out, practically glowing in the candle light. It looked as though it would burn him to touch it, but a part of him wanted to anyway. It would be a lovely way to burn.

"And a Targaryen queen."

Jealous… She was jealous. The realization knocked the breath out of him and it took him a second to gather his thoughts.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow_. Ygritte's frequent taunt rose from long dead lips to taunt him. He liked to think he knew some things now, but here, standing before his half sister, he wasn't so sure.

"Do you think we can beat the Army of the Dead without her? I fought them, Sansa. Twice. You want to worry about who holds what title, I'm telling you it doesn't matter. Without her, we don't stand a chance."

Sansa's lips parted slightly, as though to speak, but no words came out. Her eyes glistened as thought she might shed a tear. _Don't cry,_ he silently begged, _please don't cry_.

He closed his eyes and let out a breath, "Do you have any faith in me at all?"

"You know I do."

Her words gave him a surge of hope and he took a step closer.

"She'll be a good queen." He assured her. "For all of us. She's not her father."

Sansa looked down and sighed. Jon felt some of the tension between them ease.

"No, she's much prettier." She said, her voice half teasing.

Jon laughed slightly and gave her a half smile. Her eyes never left his face and he found he couldn't meet her gaze. Without him even telling her, he felt as though she knew about the boat and what had transpired between him and Daenerys. And he felt guilty.

"Did you bend the knee to save the North," Sansa started, "or because you love her?"

The questions knocked the wind out of him and he met her gaze. He could see pain in her eyes and though he didn't fully understand it, he knew he'd caused it and it made him feel sick.

He licked his lips, desperate for an honest answer that he could bring himself to speak out loud. He couldn't tell her that it didn't matter who he fucked because every time he closed his eyes he saw icy eyes and fiery hair. He couldn't tell her that he had dreamed of her most nights since she returned to him at Castle Black, even when he traveled South to broker peace with Daenerys. He couldn't tell her such things because if he said those things aloud, he might not be able to stop himself from acting on them. And then he'd be no better than the Lannisters or Boltons.

He looked into her eyes and spoke the only truth he could trust himself to speak to the sister he wanted more than he should.

"I don't love her." He whispered, praying to the old gods and the new that his eyes would not betray his deeper truth.

Sansa's eyes soften ever so slightly and she gave a slight nod of her head before stepping past him.

"Have you eaten? I can have someone bring your dinner here."

His heart hammered at the offer to dine alone with her. He knew he should refuse. He knew he should return to his duties and a place where he could trust himself to be honorable. But death was coming to Winterfell, and if it was coming for him then all he wanted was a few stolen moments with his too dear sister.

* * *

Sansa hid her laughter behind a swig of wine. Jon stole a glance at her, enjoying how at ease she seemed here, alone with him. So different from the iron maiden who sat at the at the head of the great hall and ordered around men twice her age.

"It's good to see you laugh again." He admitted.

She lowered her goblet and studied him for a long moment before rewarding him with a tentative smile.

"It's good to have a reason to laugh again." She said.

Jon pushed his plate aside. It was getting late and he knew it would be best for all involved if he wasn't spotted coming out of her room at a later than respectable hour. People would talk and it would not do to have speculations flying around.

"I should be going." He said, rising to his feet.

"Oh?"

"Tomorrow will be a long day. I have to visit the troops and oversee the defenses." He explained, which was true.

"Right." Sansa said, walking him to the door.

They both hesitated at the door. Jon wasn't sure how he was suppose to bid her good night. Words felt to weak. A kiss on the hand too formal. A kiss on the cheek, too tempting to miss his mark in favor of one sweeter.

Instead, he reached out and took her hand, squeezing it.

"Good night, Sansa."

"Good night, Jon." She whispered back, squeezing his hand in return, but not letting go. She leaned in and brushed a breath of a kiss against his cheek.

His pulse quickened and he stepped back abruptly, yanking the door open.

"Good night." He said and fled.

* * *

Jon sat upon the iron throne in a crumbling throne room. The ceiling of the throne room had fallen in upon itself and the stars bathed the room in their pale light.

Something fair glowed in the dim light, as it drew closer, Jon recognized it as a figure. A woman.

"Sansa?"

She did not speak, only slowly began to mount the stairs to the throne. She was clothed in a silk dress as white as her porcelain skin. She stopped at his feet and looked up to meet his eyes.

"I have come to bend the knee, your grace." She said, her eyes never leaving his. She reached up and untied her gown. The watery fabric slithered down her body and pooled at her feet. "The North is yours."

He grabbed her slim hips and pulling her to him, devouring every inch of alabaster flesh. Sweet as honey and softer than the silk that was lucky enough to kiss it.

She unbuttoned his tunic and slid it off his chest, her fingers hesitating over the slowly healing wounds from his brief death. She didn't pull away, merely kissed him deeper.

"I am yours as you are mine." She whispered against his jaw.

He hurriedly removed the barriers of fabric separating their flesh, desperate to have her. Her hands traveled to his face and tilted his face up to hers, tenderly caressing his lips with her own as they became one. He moaned in ecstasy. This… this was home.

Jon woke, spent and ashamed of the things his sleeping mind longed for. Those things never seemed to feel wrong in his dreams, but turned shameful with the morning light.

* * *

**Please review!**


	12. Chapter 12: Sam

Sam's lips moved as he devoured the words in the book before him. The library was dim except for his candle and the musty aroma of books was soothing to him.

A throat cleared and he jumped, started by the company he didn't realize he had.

"Oh!" He exclaimed. He scrambled to his feet at the sight of Ser Jorah and before him, Queen Daenerys.

"So you're the man?"

Sam licked his lips nervously, "Um Which man am I, Your Grace?"

"The one who saved Ser Jorah when no one else could." Daenerys smiled kindly.

"They could," Jorah corrected, "They just wouldn't."

"I'll have to make some changes in the Citadel when I take my throne. A great service merits a great reward." The Dragon Queen announced decisively.

"Oh, it's my honor to serve you, Your Grace." Sam assured her, blushing at the praise. He wasn't used to doing things for the recognition and receiving it from a Queen was overwhelming.

"Well, there must be something I could give you." She insisted.

Sam swallowed hard, knowing that this was an opportunity that he couldn't afford to waste.

"If it's not too much trouble, I could use a pardon."

The queen gave him a perplexed look, "For what crime?"

"Um I borrowed a few books from the Citadel." He confessed. "And also a sword."

She looked closed to laughing. "From the Citadel?"

"From my family." He explained. "It's been in House Tarly for generations. It would've been mine anyway, eventually, but my father had other ideas."

The queen's expression faltered. "Not Randyll Tarly?"

"You know him?" Sam was surprised by this. He couldn't imagine how their paths would have crossed.

"I offered to let him retain his lands and titles if he bent the knee." Daenerys said. "He refused."

Sam had heard stories of what had happened to those Lannister banner men who had refused to accept their defeat and bend the knee to the Targaryen queen. He'd heard there was nothing left of them to send home to their families. He swallowed hard, trying hard not to be sick. He couldn't blame the Queen for her actions. His father was a hard man and not one to risk as an enemy.

"Well… at least I'll be allowed home again, now that my brother's the lord." Sam said, trying to find a silver lining.

"Your brother stood with your father." Daenerys said, her meaning perfectly clear.

Dead.

They were both dead.

Incinerated by dragon fire.

Murdered by the woman standing before him.

"Hm…" Sam felt like his legs could barely hold him. "Thank you, Your Grace, for telling me. And m- may I?"

He gestured to the door.

"Of course."

The panic scrambled up his throat as he staggered out into the yard. A horse neighed and people shouted as he almost walked into their path, but he could barely think, barely breathe. He didn't stop until he almost crashed directly into Bran Stark.

"What are you doing out here?" Sam stammered.

"Waiting, for an old friend." Bran said vaguely, as though that made perfect sense. "It's time to tell Jon the truth."

Sam's eyes widened as he realized that Bran meant that he, Sam, should tell Jon the secret of his parentage.

"No, no." Sam said. "You're his brother. Shouldn't you tell him?"

Bran looked at him, tilting his head thoughtfully. "I'm not his brother."

Sam let out a shaky breath.

"He trusts you more than anyone." Bran continued. "Now's the time."

Sam thought about the conversation he'd just had with Daenerys. Thought about the fact that she'd burned men alive for no reason other than that they were too loyal to someone who wasn't her. And he realized that Bran was right. It was the time. Jon had to know the truth.

* * *

**Short chapter, but I hope you enjoy! As always, let me know who you would like to see more of and I'll see if I can work in more scenes for them. We're drawing close to the end of episode 1 (4 more chapters, unless I get special requests or sudden inspiration), which as I said from the beginning would be very similar to the show, but the added insight to the scenes will be important in the stories to come.**

**Please review!**


	13. Chapter 13: Jon

Jon blew out the match after lighting a candle for his honorable father. He looked at the statue of Ned Stark. What would the great man think of his bastard now? Sleeping with a queen and desiring his sister in a way that could only be described as dishonorable.

Doubtless, Ned would be ashamed. Jon, himself, was ashamed. There was no honor to be had sleeping with a woman he did not love. He'd been caught up in the intensity of everything that had happened when he went to the queen's cabin. He was overwhelmed by her courage and the sacrifice she had made of one of her beloved children to save him and a handful of men. Even as he bedded her, it felt wrong… hollow. Everything that transpired between them failed to make him feel a fraction of what he felt anytime he so much as touched Sansa. Yes, there was no honor in conducting a loveless affair, but in this case there would be even less honor in sleeping with the woman he loved.

A great deal of noise interrupted his thoughts and announced his companion before he could make him out in the dim crypt.

"Sam?" Jon said, surprised by the familiar face as his round friend gathered himself up from the floor.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm not supposed to be down here." Sam mumbled and stammered, reminding Jon of the soft, cowardly boy he'd first met at the Wall.

Jon pulled his old friend into a hug.

"Were you hiding from me?" Jon asked.

"Of course not." Sam said. Though the way he said it made Jon think that perhaps he meant the opposite.

"What are you doing in Winterfell? Or did you read every book in the Citadel already?" He teased. Then he saw his old friends chin quivering and clasped his shoulder with a firm grip. "What's wrong? Gilly? Is she all right?"

"She's good."

"Little Sam?"

"Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

Sam's voice shook as he began. "Daenerys… she executed my father and brother. They were her prisoners."

Jon stared at his friend, uncomprehendingly.

"She didn't tell you." Sam realized.

"I'm so sorry." Jon said, unable to fully comprehend what Sam was telling him. "We need to end this war."

"Would you have done it?" Sam asked abruptly.

"Well, I've executed men who disobeyed me." Jon started, but those were men who had recognized him as their Lord Commander. He'd never killed a defeated enemy, simply because they'd fought on opposing sides.

"You've also spared men. Thousands of wildlings when they refused to kneel." Passion was rising in Sam's quavering voice.

He knew Sam was right. He never could have brought himself to execute a man if honor did not compel him to do so.

"I wasn't a king." He reminded his friend.

"But you were. You've always been."

"I gave up my crown, Sam. I bent the knee. I'm not King in the North anymore."

He turned to walk away. Honor compelled him to serve Daenerys. He had sworn to do so. While he did not agree with her actions, it was not his place to question them.

"I'm not talking about the King in the North. I'm talking about the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms." Sam shouted after him.

Jon froze in his tracks. His dream of Sansa coming to him as he sat upon the Iron Throne burned shamefully in the back of his mind. Even his dreams were treasonous.

"Bran and I worked it out." Sam explained. "I had a High Septon's diary. Bran had whatever Bran has."

"What are you talking about?" Jon demanded.

"Your mother was Lyanna Stark."

Jon exhaled sharply, his mind preoccupied with impure thoughts of his own sister, he struggled to make sense of how his mother could be Ned Stark's sister. The honorable Eddard Stark would never…

"And your father your real father was Rhaegar Targaryen." Sam said. "You've never been a bastard. You're Aegon Targaryen, true heir to the Iron Throne."

Jon found it hard to breathe. He walked slowly toward Sam.

"I'm sorry, I know it's a lot to take in." Sam said.

"My father was the most honorable man I ever met." Jon said. "You're saying he lied to me all my life."

"No. Your father Well, Ned Stark. He promised your mother he'd always protect you." Sam explained. "And he did. Robert would have murdered you if he knew. You're the true king. Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, Protector of the Realm, all of it."

Jon felt sick, but he also knew in his bones that it was true. It had never made sense that the honorable Lord Stark had fathered a bastard and the way Ned always evaded questions about Jon's mother. His promise to tell him all of it the next time they met, a promise he was destined to break. He was protecting a secret. This secret.

And, if it was true. If he was truly not a Stark at all. It meant Sansa wasn't his sister. It meant, these things he felt and dreamed about… that they were not dishonorable. It meant, if he acknowledged his birthright… he could have her. If she'd take him.

"Daenerys is our queen." Jon said, remembering sense.

"She shouldn't be."

"That's treason." He warned, worried that in Sam's present state of mind he might say such a thing in front of the wrong person.

"It's the truth." Sam insisted. "You gave up your crown to save your people. Would she do the same?"

Jon raised his hand to stave off Sam's words. He couldn't listen anymore, couldn't hear anymore. He hurried from the crypts feeling suddenly suffocated beneath the earth. Once he reached the yard, he kept walking. He needed to get away. He needed some place open where he could be away from people and see the starts.

Without a plan to go there, he found himself beneath the weirwood tree. How many times had he found his father… the man he'd believed was his father… in this very spot, praying to his old gods for guidance.

Jon couldn't remember the last time he'd prayed to any god, old or otherwise. He supposed he should have started praying to the god of light when the Red Priestess brought him back from death, but he'd never found prayer to be overly productive.

If the gods did exist, it seemed to Jon that they cared very little about the fate of man.

"Jon?"

He turned around and the sight of her took his breath away. _Sansa_. His sister. But she wasn't his sister anymore. She never had been. She was a vision in the dim light, her auburn hair hanging long and straight, her head held up with an ever present hint of pride. He wondered how she did it, after everything she'd endured, how she stood so strong. Daenerys might be the unburnt, but Sansa Stark was the unbroken.

Memories of his dreams of sitting upon the Iron Throne came back to him, and the thoughts troubled him. He didn't care what Sam thought, birthright or no, he wasn't meant to be a king. He didn't want it. He never had. But he did want _her_. He realized now he always had wanted her, even as children in Winterfell, he had wanted his sister, even before he had the words or wisdom to recognize it. It was what stayed his hand when he first met Ygritte. For one gut-wrenching moment, he'd seen the flash of red hair and she had been Sansa. And he couldn't do what had to be done.

When King Robert came to Winterfell, Jon had thought Jeoffery was a prat right off, but the moment he'd heard that the prince and Sansa would one day marry, his dislike grew to hatred, well before the little prick did anything to truly earn it.

With the wisdom of years, he saw now that Sansa the root of so many of his actions. She was the reason he was so confident in his decision to join the Night's Watch at such a young age. Before he ever recognized what he felt for her as desire, he knew the difference between them, that he was a bastard and she was so, incredibly far above him. Though he'd never before admitted it to himself, he chose the Watch because he could not have what he truly wanted. It seemed better to run North, to guard the Wall and pretend he didn't care what became of Sansa Stark. And for a very long, he managed to convince himself that he didn't care. Until he had word that she'd been married to a bastard… the wrong bastard.

"What are you doing out here?" He asked. He didn't think she had any inclination for prayer anymore either.

"It's the only private place left in Winterfell." She said, looking up at the deep read leaves, her expression pensive.

"Did you want to be alone?" He offered.

She looked him over and then shook her head.

"No… I don't think that I do."

She walked over and joined him beneath the tree.

"I never liked this place as a child." She whispered. "Our father's gods always scared me. They seemed so hard and cold. It wasn't until after Ramsay… After I handled him, that I learned the value of being hard."

"I wish I could erase everything that happened to you."

She gave him a sad smile. "I know. But there's no use dwelling on what we can't change." She looked him over and he saw something in her eyes in the same vein as the jealousy he'd read in her eyes the night before. "No matter how much we may wish it, there are some things we cannot change."

His mind raced. He wanted to tell her everything, she was the one person whose opinion he thought highly enough of to advise him in this.

"The queen thinks you don't respect her." Jon said, wanting to talk about something, anything, in order to keep his mind from racing back to the new truth that changed everything and nothing at the same time.

"That's because I don't." Sansa said, as thought it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Sansa, she's our queen."

"She's _your_ queen."

Their eyes met and hers burned with defiance.

"I pledged the North to her." Jon said.

"Perhaps, but you did not pledge me." Sansa told him.

_Nor would I. _Jon thought. Some prices were too high.

"I am no man's possession to be offered as payment. I've been bought and sold and traded." Sansa's voice shook, whether from cold or past wrongs, he couldn't tell. "Never again. If your queen wants my respect, then she'd better do more than demand it."

Jon moved closer to her. "So what about me?"

"What about you?" She lifted her chin defiantly.

"The North made me their king. And as their king, I bent the knee. I've seen how hard Daenerys will fight for her people. I respect her. Is that not enough for you?"

Sansa shivered. Jon instinctively drew closer to her, his hand going to her waist, unbidden.

"Do you ask it of me?" She whispered.

His breath was hard to catch with her so near.

"Do you ask me to bend the knee to her." Sansa asked, shifting still closer to him. His mind drifted back to alabaster skin in the moonlight. He felt a stirring deep in his loins and he gritted his teeth to ignore it.

"Ask it of me and I'll do it." Sansa placed her hands on his face and looked searchingly in his eyes.

He licked his lips, ignoring the desperate desire to kiss her. _Not my sister. _The new knowledge drummed through his head.

"Ask it of me." She said again, but this time he wasn't sure if she was talking about bending the knee to Daenerys or something else. Somehow, her body was pressed against his. It was as though a force beyond them kept drawing them closer to each other. And Jon realized it was something they both wanted but could not bring themselves to admit, unless the other did so first.

Home. She was home. He'd spent so many years searching for one, only to find it had been beside him all along, he only had to return to it.

He placed his hand over hers and turned into her touch to place a kiss upon her palm. She drew a sharp breath, but she didn't pull away. Jon looked into her eyes, seeing the desire he felt echoed back at him. She wanted the same things that teased his dreams. Doubtless she was plagued by the same torment of shame for wanting such a thing, knowing as he did that it was wrong.

He had been ashamed of wanting her until this very evening when Sam told him the truth of his parentage. He didn't care that it made him a Targaryen. He didn't care that it gave him the strongest claim to the Iron Throne. He didn't even care that it meant he wasn't a bastard. He only cared that it meant Sansa was not his sister and never had been.

He had known that wanting her when he believed her to be his sister was wrong. But she didn't look at him as though she thought it was wrong. There had never been a single moment he'd spent with her that had felt wrong. And now he knew why. But if he told her the truth… if he told her that he was free to love her and why, she would push him to make a claim for his birthright, believing him to be a better choice than Daenerys. If he didn't acknowledge his birth, the world would alway see them as half sibling and the things he felt for her would turn the North against the both of them.

"I have to be smarter." Jon said, remembering her warning that he couldn't make the stupid mistakes of Robb or Ned. While Jon had pledged himself to Daenerys's cause because he felt honor bound to do so, he was well aware that it was not honor that had driven the Dragon Queen North. She loved him. She loved him, but he couldn't love her in return. If he followed his heart, he risked not only his head and Sansa's, but losing the support he'd gained for the battle against the dead.

Sansa looked into his eyes questioningly.

"Robb lost the war when he chose love over honor." Jon reminded her.

"Only because people found out." Sansa countered. What she wasn't saying was clear. He could have her, but no one could ever know what transpired between them. No one else would understand. She was not ashamed of what she felt, like he had been, but neither was she foolish enough to think they could act on it without enacting a steep price.

Jon knew now there was no shame in this bond they shared, but he also knew that if he told her that truth it could cost one or both of them their lives. And wrong or not, her life meant more do him than all of the North combined.

"Do you trust me?_" _He asked her.

"You know I do." She echoed her own response from her chambers the night before.

_What is honor compared to a woman's love?_ Maester Aemon's words rung out in his head, truer than ever. He did not think he'd truly appreciated the meaning of those words. Not in the cave with Ygritte and certainly not with Daenerys. But now with the innocence of a hand cradled in his own, he understood.

He leaned in a caught her lips in a kiss that burned away any trace of cold in the icy night.

* * *

**Please review!**


	14. Chapter 14: Sansa

_When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who's worthy of you. Someone who's brave, gentle, and strong. _The voice of Ned Stark rang in Sansa's mind as she placed the newly lit candle in the stone hands of his statue. It wasn't a very good likeness, but after all this time, she found the memory of the original had faded. She struggled to conjure any of their faces. Her father. Her mother. Rob. Rickon. They were once her entire world and now she could barely remember how they looked and spoke.

The Starks were gone. Even those that remained were hollowed out shells of their former selves.

Bran, the three-eyed raven.

Arya, the assassin.

Sansa… Stark? Or was it Lannister or Bolton?

And Jon…

The memory of his kiss made her lips tingle.

He'd kissed her, something part of her had longed for since the first time he pressed his lips to her forehead. He'd kissed her and then he'd bid her farewell like one of the honorable knights in the stories she'd long since stopped believing in. When he took a kiss, she'd realized with absolute certainty that she would let him take anything and everything else he wanted from her.

He was not the prince her childish self had longed for, but she had longed for so many things in her youth that now filled her with shame. She'd longed to marry a beautiful golden haired prince. She'd longed to be queen. She'd longed leave the North and never return.

She'd wanted Jon, longed for him for longer than she dared to admit. When she'd told him that he was a Stark to her, it had not been because he was her father's son. No. It was because, to her, he was everything. He was the one person who made her feel as though she was still whole. He was her pack, her family, and, if he would have her, her mate.

She knew that the world would never accept them. She'd seen the way the common folk spit and scorned Cersei as they became aware of her relations with her brother. They would be no different if they discovered the love between Ned Stark's daughter and Ned Stark's bastard was deeper than that of half-brother and half-sister.

The Lords of North were fickle. They're loyalty shifted like the wind. This would doubtless set them against the remains of the Stark family. It was unwise. But Sansa has spent years making the wise decisions under the tutelage of Lord Baelish.

_We can't fight a war amongst ourselves, _Jon had warned her.

_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives, _her father's wisdom echoed.

She lit another candle, this one for Lyanna. Poor, tragic Lyanna.

Sansa studied the stony face. She wondered if it was any more accurate than that of her father's.

_How many tens of thousands had to die because Rhaegar chose your aunt?_

Would people one days say the same, should she choose her brother? A single tear rolled down her cheek. Her heart ached for the Stark girl, the girl who like her became a pawn in the hands of others. _Oh, Lyanna_.

What might the world look like if not for men taking what they wanted from women who could do nothing to stop them?

What might the world look like if women could take what they wanted without fear of consequence.

_Why aren't you happy? What do you want that you don't have? _Lord Baelish had once asked her. At the time, she didn't know. Her dreams of marrying a king and bearing his sons had long faded, tarnished by the reality of what kings were really like. She no longer craved that power. No. She wanted security for herself and for the North.

And she wanted Jon.

So why did those two desires have to be mutually exclusive?

She licked her lips, still tasting his kiss there.

_When I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What's the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do? Then I ask myself, how well does that reason explain what they say and what they do?_

Jon asked her if she trusted him. Why? What was the worse reason he could possibly have for asking that? Either his worse reason was that he loved her, even though he knew it was wrong, or he intended to betray her. Or both.

He'd told her he didn't love Daenerys. She believed him. He was a honest man. And when he kissed her, she believed that too. But would he do what honor compelled him to do and seek a union with the Dragon Queen for the sake of the North? She didn't know, but she did not think she could stomach it if he did. He was hers, he was meant to be hers, not some foreign queen who's eyes burned hungry for power.

Time was running short. The dead were coming and she would be leaving with the women and children before that happened. And then? What then? What if one or both of them didn't make it through the long night? That was the only thing she could think of that would be worse than his marrying Daenerys. His ceasing to be among the living.

_You've been a bystander_, Littlefinger's memory whispered in her ear, _Stop being a bystander_.

She drew a deep breath, making up her mind. If one or both of them were about to die, then first they'd live.

* * *

Sansa let herself into Jon's chambers without knocking. She bolted the door behind herself to ensure no one else could do the same. For a man who'd been murdered by his own men, he was still far too trusting.

In the light of his fading fire, she could just make his sleeping form under the piles of furs. How was it he could sleep so peacefully after the kiss they'd shared? Her mind was racing and sleep was the last thing on her mind.

"Jon?" She whispered, drawing closer to the bed.

He stirred and sat up slowly, looking at her with bleary eyes. Slowly they registered recognition. The furs slipped down, revealing his bare chest. It was all she could do not to gasp at the sight of still healing wounds. She'd known what had happened to him at Castle Black, but she'd never seen the evidence of it.

"What are you doing here?" Jon asked, his voice low and husky.

"Do you love me?" She asked.

"Sansa…" And she knew he was about to start telling her all the reasons why what he felt didn't matter.

"Do you love me?" She pressed.

"You know I do." He whispered.

"Then nothing else matters." She went to him and kissed him like she would never get another chance.

He started to pull away but stopped when she shook her head. At that, he wrapped his arms wound her waist and gathered her close. She swung one leg across to sit astride him and kissed along his jaw.

She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, hesitating over the wounds there. Jon flinched at her touch and she wondered how much pain he was still in. The red priestess had brought him back from the dead, but she had not healed the damage.

She sat back and studied the marks for a long moment, running a finger over one of the worst wounds.

Betrayed by his own men. She could relate. It had, after all, been Littlefinger, a man who claimed to love her, who handed her over to the Boltons. Though her wounds were not on the surface like his, she felt no less marred by them. She had erased Ramsay from existence, but she could not just wipe away the damage he had done to her. Physically, she had healed, but there was more to some wounds than the marks they left.

Jon caught her hand in his and held it over his heart, which miraculously still beat within his chest. She didn't think she'd felt anything more precious in all of her days then his pounding heart. Alive. He was alive. And he loved her.

"Do you love me?" He asked her in return.

She felt a thrill at the question. She been married twice and engaged far more often than that, but love? Love was not a notion she'd bothered to entertain since Jeoffrey had her father's head cut off and stuck on a spike. Even that, what's she'd felt for Jeoffrey before discovering his true nature, had been a little girl playing at feelings she was too young to full appreciate. She had been loved, or at least lusted after, but several men over the interceding years. But she had loved none of them.

She had thought herself incapable of feeling such things by the time she escaped King's Landing.

It wasn't until Brienne delivered her safely to Castle Black after escaping Ramsay, that her perspective began to shift. It was slow at first, but embracing Jon was like waking up from what had been an endless nightmare. With Jon, she had come back to life and remembered how to smile.

"Sansa?" Jon pressed, looking unsure after her long silence.

"You know I do."

He seemed buoyed by her response and pulled her back, his lips meeting hers.

She began to unfasten her gown and his hands went to stop her.

"I want this." She told him. "I want to know what is to be loved by a good man."

With the world as they knew it drawing to its end, she did not want the last touches her body remembered to be Ramsay's abuse. She wanted Jon to touch every battered inch of her and balm the damage he found.

"This is wrong."

She flinched at his words. While she knew what the rest of the world would think, the shame their father would feel if he could see them, but she did not want Jon to feel that way.

"You don't want me?"

"I do… I just…" He looked into her eyes. "What if I got you with child?"

_Snow. _He was afraid. Afraid to dishonor her. Afraid to bring another bastard into the world.

Sansa got up from the bed and slowly removed her garments until all that was left was her corset and light shift.

Jon's eyes raked over her hungrily. "Sansa…"

"You are a Stark to me," She murmured, her eyes never straying from his. "And if I bore your child, they would be a Stark to me as well."

"But not to the rest of the world." He reminded her.

He rose out of the bed to come to her. The furs fell away to expose his nakedness, and precisely how much he desired her.

She looked him over, unabashed of the want she was sure burned in her own eyes.

"I don't give a damn about the rest of the world." She told him.

He drew her in to a passionate kiss and hurriedly did away with the laces of her corset, sliding first it and then her shift off her body. Looking her over, he let out a low moan at the sight of her naked form. He caressed the buds of her breasts with worshipful admiration.

Guiding her back to the bed and crawled on after her, slowly he spread her long pale legs, moving closer to her.

She could see the desperate desire in his eyes, but his every move was soft. She trusted that he would be gentle with her, if the effort of it killed him.

Then he kissed her center, something she'd never even known men would do. He caressed and teased her until she writhed and moaned under his ministrations.

She tangled her hands in his hair and her eyes shut against the torturous build up of sensation. When he pulled away, leaving her unsatisfied.

She looked up at him, confused, as he shifted over her. Then she felt the burning heat of him press against her.

She flinched at the contact and closed her eyes.

"Look at me." He whispered, and slowly she opened her eyes, gazing up into warm brown orbs that she would trust with her life. "Don't look away."

She nodded, her own pale eyes locked on his. He caressed her cheek and buried himself inside her. Sansa pulled him down for a kiss as they began to move together, lost in each other.

_So this was what it was supposed to be like. _She thought.

She felt his movements grow erratic as they both approached their climaxes, and she wrapped her legs tight around him so he couldn't pull out. She wanted his seed to fill her and quicken in her womb. If they lived, she wanted to give him a child, consequences be damned.

He groaned in protest, but he came inside her with a force that sent her following him over the edge. She cried out his name, and he captured the sound with his lips.

Panting and spent, they stayed with their bodies tangled, shifting only to draw one another closer.

"I am yours and you are mine." Jon whispered in her ear as she drifted to sleep. "From this day, until the end of my days."

She fell asleep with a smile gracing her lips. _From this day, until the end of my days._

* * *

**Due to requests for more Jonsa, I thought I'd work in some more of our star-crossed lovers. I hope you all enjoy!**

**Please review!**


	15. Chapter 15: Tormund

Tormund Giantsbane crept through the fallen castle. The stink of old blood hung heavy in the air and he wasn't sure if was from the recently dead of the army that slaughtered them. Either way, the stench was foul enough to force him to breath through his mouth.

He hadn't paid close attention to all the family seats and holdings of the different lords in Jon's "North". These Southern were strange folk with their incessant need to lay claim on land as though by saying so they could tame the untamable. But he thought he recalled that the Umbers with their little boy lord used to call these crumbling ruins their home.

The destruction around him was not so different from the wall that had come down beneath the assault of the wight dragon's blue flames.

He heard something and gestured for his companions, several wildlings and the one-eyed knight to quiet down.

Something was approaching.

They rounded a corner and then someone was yelling. Tormund found himself yelling too. The one-eyed knights sword erupted with flames.

"Stay back, he's got blue eyes!" Someone panicked, brandishing a sword at him.

"I've always had blue eyes!" Tormund yelled back.

Slowly the panic subsided and he recognized the stringy haired crow called Edd.

"Did you find anyone?" the one-eyed knight asked.

The crow looked down in sorrow and lead them to the massacre.

The knight raised his flaming sword. "The Umber boy."

The boy, hung from the wall surrounded by pieces of his slaughtered men like a macabre work of art.

"It's a message." The knight continued, "From the Night King."

"His army's between us and Winterfell." Tormund said. "We're on foot."

He was not one to say no to a fight, but these were not the kind of odds he liked.

"We rode down from Castle Black." The leader of the crows said. "We can double up on the horses."

"If the horses last, we'll get there before the dead." Tormund said, relieved by this one stroke of luck. "We just have to hope the Night King doesn't come first."

A shrieking erupted behind him. He spun around to find the dead boy's eyes open and icy blue. Before he could do more than jump back, the knight drove his sword into the wight and the thing that had once been the tiny lord burst into flames, still shrieking.

Tormund's heart hammered in his chest. If the gods were merciful, he would not end up one of those mindless, shrieking things. He had too much to live for. Like the big woman.

"There's no time to waste." The knight said, withdrawing his sword from the burning corpse. He looked at the small band of crows. "Lead the way."

* * *

**Short chapter, and second to the last chapter of Episode 1 as my story plans currently stand. If there is a character you'd like to see more of in this episode, speak now or forever hold your peace! Otherwise, it will be on to Episode 2.**

**Please Review!**


	16. Chapter 16: Daenerys

Daenerys lay alone in a cold bed in this cold, northern place. And what for? She'd been dissuaded from her campaign to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister in favor of coming to this inhospitable place to fight back the armies of the dead. And why?

For Jon.

She'd lost one of her children to the Night King. And why?

For Jon.

She'd refrained from raining dragon fire on Cersei Lannister's smug head in the Dragon Pits. And why?

For Jon.

Because she loved him. She loved him as she had not believed herself capable of loving anyone since Drogo's death. He was good, brave, and honorable. When he informed Cersei that he could not serve her since he had already sworn to serve Daenerys, it was foolish and helped nothing, but it made her love him more.

He was a good man. He did what was right over what was wise. Doubtless, the very trait that made her love him was the same trait that led to his betrayal and murder by his own men.

Because the world was not kind to good men. Which, doubtless, was why she knew so very few of them.

Drogo had not been a good man. Neither was Dario. Neither was Tyrion nor Jorah. She'd spent her entire adult life surrounded by men who were not good men. But they had been good to her.

Then there was Jon Snow. A bastard turned Lord Commander of the Night's Watch turned King in the North. She doubted there was a person alive who would claim Jon to be anything other than a good man.

So why was it that he wasn't good to her?

After hours of tossing and turning, Daenerys finally had to accept that sleep would not come. She pulled on a heavy fur robe and tossed a few more pieces of wood on her fire.

She watched as the flickering flames licked at the newly added wood.

Never in her life had she encountered a man she wanted who did not want her as much or more in return. She knew she was beautiful, she'd been told too many times to doubt it. She also knew that Jon found her beautiful. He looked at her as many men before him had done. And he had been the one to come to her cabin on the boat. Yes, she'd sent him a message encouraging him to do so, but he was the one who came.

But now that they were in Winterfell, now that she was committed to fighting for his cause, fighting the white walkers, he had pulled away from her. She'd sent him multiple invitations to join her in her quarters for dinner, all of which he'd politely refused for one reason or another. Even when she'd allowed him to ride Rhaegal and the dragons took them far away from Winterfell and the concerns of the impending battle, he'd still been the first to pull away from her kiss.

He was not the man she thought he'd be when they met. He was better. But he was flawed too. He was too honest, too honorable, and too deeply tied to the Starks. She saw each of those flaws and more, but it didn't matter. He was far from her ideal mate, no powerful surname and no seat to call his own while true born Starks lived, but still she wanted him. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything, save the Iron Throne.

Flustered by the thoughts running round and round in her head with no resolution, Daenerys rose to her feet. She needed to get out of this stifling room. She needed fresh air to clear her troubled mind.

* * *

Daenerys stood up on the wall, looking out across the black night. Somewhere in the distance, her children slept. She'd told Jon they didn't like the North, but that was only half of it. They were still mourning the loss of their brother. If she was honest, so was she. She did her best not to think of Viserion, because doing so only brought her pain. Her beautiful darling, named for her brother in hopes that he would grow to be all that Viserys in his weakness could not be. But now… Now he fought for the dead. She'd watched him die once already. In the days to come, would she have to send him to his final death? Could she do it?

There were men watching for signs of movement in the darkness posted along the wall to raise the alarm should trouble encroach, but with the exception of offering her a respectful nod or bow, they did little to acknowledge her presence.

She found she appreciated the disinterest of the Northerns for the first time. In her current state, the loneliness of the wall suited her.

"Your Grace."

She looked around and saw a girl she knew only by sight. Jon had pointed her out once as they passed through the yard as his other sister.

"Lady Arya." Daenerys said.

"Arya is fine." The small girl with Jon's same dark features said. Her tone was pleasant enough, but her expression seemed like a mask. If she had any feelings about Daenerys, they were well hidden, unlike her sister who's dislike glinted cold in her eyes. "I'm no lady."

"Are you not the true born daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully?" Daenerys asked, enjoying the opportunity to actually make use of the names and families she'd spent so much of her life memorizing.

"I am." Arya said.

"Then you are a lady."

Arya let out a little laugh that didn't sound overly humorous.

"I assure you, I'm no one." She said.

Daenerys looked the small girl over. She'd once heard Varys remark that the younger Stark girl was a startlingly accurate copy of her aunt Lyanna. Rhaegar's Lyanna. While the girl was pleasing enough to look upon, Daenerys couldn't help but wonder how a relatively unremarkable girl had so captured her brother, who by all accounts was a good man, and inspired him to not only abandon his wife and children, but cause a war by stealing her away from her family and betrothed against her will.

"I rather doubt that." Daenerys smile, hoping to get at least one of the Starks on her side. Since that seemed unlikely with Sansa and Bran was… whatever Bran was, that left Arya. "From what I hear, you're Jon's most beloved sibling."

Something unreadable flickered across Arya's eyes. "I used to be."

"Used to be?" Daenerys felt a twinge of unease. "Has something caused you to fall in his favor?"

This was something she could sympathize with far more than she wished to.

Arya shook her head and offered a polite smile. "It's not like that at all. It's just, it's been so long, you can hardly call us siblings anymore… Any of us."

Daenerys looked out into the dark. Despite Arya's words, she didn't quite believe her. Perhaps some of the bond had faded between the Stark children, but they were still deeply tied. Daenerys could see that in the way their eyes sought each other out when they entered rooms, the way their movements and words seemed to be intertwined. Perhaps they no longer shared the straightforward bond of siblings reared in the same house, but they were still Starks, dire wolves like those on their house crest. No, Daenerys did not believe there was any way to truly drive a wedge between the four of them, no matter how different they each seemed. They were more than family. They were a pack.

And the three true born Starks would always have a hold on Jon that she could not match. No matter how many oaths he swore. The realization made her heart grow a little colder.

* * *

**A special dedication to Patitocuac who has been a loyal reader/reviewed from the start and let me know she would like to see some more Dany POV! I hope you enjoy this extra chapter and early update! Thank you to Patitocuac and all those reading, reviewing, and supporting me as I tackle the daunting task of rewriting season 8! You are all amazing and 100% the reason I've stayed so motivated on this project. Thank you for coming along for the ride!**

**Please review!**


	17. Chapter 17: Jaime

As he rode away from King's Landing, Jaime felt as though he was waking from a trance. Whenever he was around Cersei, she pulled him back into her toxic orbit and he lost sight of who he was… who he wanted to be.

Brienne's appearance in Dragon Pit was like a slap or a bucket of icy water to the face, unpleasant but eye opening.

_Fuck loyalty_. Two words he'd never imagined would come from the Maid of Tarth's annoyingly honorable mouth. _Fuck loyalty_.

Had it not been for his jarring interaction with Brienne, he might have been able to submit meekly to Cersei's deception. He might have been able to ignore the gnawing shame of breaking yet another oath and sink back into the foggy complacency of obeying Cersei's wishes.

But those sapphire eyes had looked at him like he was more than the man he'd been. She had looked at him as though she knew he could be more… better. And she made him want to prove her right.

He cursed the troublesome maid every night of his uncomfortable journey North, sleeping on rock earth instead of in Cersei's feather bed. But every mile he travelled away from his sister, the lighter he felt, the more he felt like the man who'd jumped into a bear pit to rescue a good and honorable woman because it was the right thing to do. Like the man who had gifted Oathkeeper to the stubborn maid of Tarth so that she might keep both of their oaths and told her it was hers and always would be when she tried to return it upon fulfilling her sworn duty.

By the time he reached Winterfell, he no longer felt like the Kingslayer, but rather Ser Jaime.

He jumped down from his horse in the yard of Winterfell. The journey north had taken him nearly three weeks. He could have made it in less time, but he couldn't ride hard. While he had enough coin to buy a new steed, the country had been ravaged by war over the last several years and most of the inns alone the way had been destroyed or shut their doors as their owners were slaughtered or fled for somewhere safer. He knew he couldn't trust the availability of a fresh horse in the war torn wilds of the realm and so he'd been careful with the one he had, giving it plenty of rest.

He looked around the yard of the once great fortress of the North. Like the rest of Westeros, the war had not been kind. The last time he'd been there, while cold, the place was untouched by snow. Now with the white stuff making its presence known, everything was weighed down with a gray haze. There was no brightness to this place. Just the heavy foreboding of impending doom.

He scanned the yard and his gaze fell on a figure, sitting bundled in furs and watching him.

Bran Stark.

The boy he'd thrown from a window had become a crippled man.

Bran watched him as though he had been waiting for him and it sent a chill through the Kingslayer.

He had been a fool to come here alone without the Lannister army at his back to defend him. He would die in this place for his past sins without even being given the opportunity to atone for them by fighting the dead as he'd sworn to do. The Starks would surely string him up as soon as he turned himself over to them. He just willingly traveled across the seven kingdoms to die for nothing.

At least that would provide Cersei with some satisfaction, knowing that he was every bit the fool she'd always told him he was.

Perhaps, at least, he'd see Brienne once more before the end. She would call him Ser Jaime, even if the rest of the world called him a man without honor. That would be enough.

If they didn't execute him right away, would she come to him? Would she sit with him a while, passing his last hours with him? Would she stay with him to the end? He imagined she would, if he asked her to. And he would ask her to. He would set aside his pride and ask her to abide with him awhile. If he pulled her into his arms, she would hold him until the end. Of that he was sure. Perhaps she would not stay out of love, but at least out of some degree of respect and that would be enough. He imagined that there were worse ways to die than in the company of the woman who made him the man he wanted to be.

"I've been waiting for you." Bran said, his voice dull and lifeless. Nothing like the animated boy Jaime had caught fearlessly scaling the walls of the castle. That was his doing. He was the one who turned a vibrant child into a shell of himself. It was a shame he carried with him every day and would never fully shake.

Reluctantly, he approached the young Stark.

"How did you know I was coming?" Jaime asked.

"Because you made a promise."

* * *

**And so ends Episode 1! I hope you all enjoyed both the small and large variations from the version aired by D&D. Do Not Fret! There is more to come. Episode 2 will "air" shortly... Now to decide whether or not to make you wait a week before it does... Hmmmm... For those who are following the story and not me as an author, I'll post one last "chapter" here when I post the first chapter of Episode 2. Thank you for all your support and reviews, you are literally the best! As it stands, I am in the middle of writing Episode 2, so there is plenty of time for me to work in requests. I had one request for more scenes with the Starks (specifically Jon and Sansa) and that will most definitely happen, but people let me know what else you'd like to see!**

**Please review!**


	18. Next on Game of Thrones

Next on Game of Thrones...

_"When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story about the man who murdered our father. Who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor." Daenerys spoke slowly and clearly, despite the rage that burned wildly in her eyes._

**He could stand the world thinking him an Oathbreaker, but not her.**

_"Tread carefully, Jon Snow. It seems you have a great deal to lose."_

**"It doesn't matter where I am, the fighting will follow." Bran said. "And I need you by my side through the long night." **

_She stood annoyingly straight and surveyed the preparations and training taking place around her. By this light, she was an ugly woman._

**Daenerys reached out and took Sansa's hand. **

**"I'm here because I love your brother." She felt Sansa flinch as she said she loved Jon and the ice returned to the Stark girl's eyes.**

* * *

**Thought you guys might enjoy a couple teasers for what's to come in episode two! To read more, please check out 8x02 A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Chapter 1 is now up!**


End file.
